Assassins Through the Ages
by Moonsp1r1t
Summary: A short series of Altair lbn-La'Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf, and Kadar Al-Sayf when they were children, starting out when Altair and Malik were five years old. NO YAOI, NO SHIPPING OF ANY KIND.
1. Chapter 1: The Bird

Hello, this is my first fan fiction published here, and I would really appreciate feed back, but please try not to be mean. Thanks!

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**Age 5:**

The two Master Assassins sat in an office, one open to anyone at Masyaf, shelves lined with books towering around them against the four walls if the small, rectangular room. Mostly, the two assassins did not use it very often; usually they were too busy to sit down and relax, and when they did have free time, they would spend it practicing fighting or entertaining their young sons.

One of the assassins, a man with messy black hair, charcoal eyes, and a long, hawk-like nose was sitting in one of the chairs with a small stack of books on the table separating him from the other man with his hidden blade sitting next to them, safely out of reach of grabbing hands, although he took no notice of either. Rather, his full attention was on the blue-eyed two-year-old sitting on his lap, who was attempting to shove his entire fist into his mouth.

The other man was lounging lazily in his own chair, the chair tipped back dangerously on its back two legs. The man's muddy, leather boots were propped up on the table, despite being constantly reprimanded as a Novice for doing so, and the right leg was crossed over the left. The man's arms were folded behind his head, and there was the trace of a smirk on his face, although he himself did not know what he found so amusing.

"I hope to go out on another mission soon." said the first man casually, bouncing his youngest son on his knees, who laughed joyously.

The second man, who had just come back from a week-long contract three days ago, chuckled a tiny bit. He looked over at the other assassin and said, "And I suppose you will want me to take care of Malik and Kadar for you, while you're gone, Faheem?"

"If you like, I shall be grateful." Faheem admitted, "I shouldn't be gone for long. Altaïr nearly went insane waiting for you to come home last week, and you were back earlier than expected." Faheem added, shooting a wry look at his friend, "I expect that Malik and Kadar would drive you insane, too, if I were out for much longer.

"It was a good kill, I trust?" Faheem said, after a moment's thought.

At this, the assassin laughed. "It was, and I don't doubt it." he replied, answering to both topics. Then he leaned forward and got his feet off of the table, resting his forearms on his legs as he peered over at Faheem seriously. "By the way, I've been meaning to ask; did Altaïr behave himself? I know he can be a little difficult to deal with at times..."

Faheem smirked again, before turning back towards Kadar. "No need to worry, Umar. Altaïr was fine. He was no trouble at all."

Umar smiled weakly, leaning back in his chair again, but not balancing it the way it was before. He didn't want to admit it, but he was worried that his only son was a nuisance to the other assassin while he was out on another murder.

Not that Altaïr was trouble for his father, most of the time. In fact, compared to most five year olds, he was unusually quiet and well behaved. Even compared to Malik, who too was unusually silent for his age, Altaïr seemed somewhat passive and deadpan, but headstrong. Umar had wondered if there was something wrong with him, even he himself could not recall being so quiet when he was his age, he could mostly just remember running around his parents' farm, scaring the sheep as he chased them, but every time he would ask the medics if his son was ill, they would just say he was fine, and look at him with sort of an amused expression. Whenever he asked Altaïr if he was okay he would get a similar response.

Faheem Al-Sayf's eldest son looked very similar to his father. They had the same facial features and build, although his skin tone was a couple shades lighter than that of his father, and his hair was much more similar to his mother's in shade and thickness. Kadar looked a lot like his elder brother, accept he had his father's messy hair, and his mother's cerulean blue eyes, hinting at her mixed heritage.

Altaïr, in the other hand, took after his mother. His skin was much paler than anyone else's at Masyaf, and instead of his hair being a thick black or dark brown, which was typical for people in the holy land, it was a warm brown. Not only that, but his golden eyes were _exactly_ that of his mother. Sometimes it unnerved Umar to see his dead wife's eyes shining out of his young son's face, although he tried not to ever let it show, because Altaïr had always seemed to possess the uncanny ability to tell when something was troubling someone, especially when it came to his father or either if the Al-Sayf brothers. Due to his strange collection of features, the other children of Masyaf would often whisper about Altaïr lbn-La'Ahad when they thought that no one was around to listen, and they would sometimes avoid him. However, his strange appearance never seemed to bother Malik or his little brother.

Umar found himself thinking back to a conversation he and his son had had the previous year. The Al-Sayfs had invited Altaïr over for dinner at Malik's request, or rather Malik's request to play with their food while sitting with the family of four. It had gone well, despite the mess the children had made, accept for when Altaïr came running to his father, begging to know why Malik had a mother, and he didn't. It was an upsetting conversation for the both of them, and it made the grief for Maud's death fresh.

Jolting back to the present, Umar felt like he should say something else to Faheem, but just then there was the pattering sound of little feet from outside of the office and door burst open. Both assassins looked over at the door, Faheem looking expectant and Umar grinning. The latter leaned forward in his chair to greet the two children who had entered the door, and Faheem set Kadar gently onto the floor, who hugged his pants leg uncertainly.

"Well, speak if the devil, we were just ta-" Umar stopped short as he studied the two boys before him.

Their faces were streaked with grime and tears, their pale clothes covered in dirt and dust. Altaïr stood a little in font of Malik, something clasped in his tiny hands over his chest. Malik's lower lip was quivering, and both boys looked scared and deeply saddened.

Umar's eyebrows drew together as he frowned and exchanged a glance with Faheem to find his own emotions mirrored back at him on the other Master Assassin's face. Faheem stood, and Umar crouched down so that he was face-to-face with his son. Umar's hazel eyes met with with Altaïr's gold, and Umar put his right had gently on his shoulder, any thoughts of his most recent assassination or anything else other than making sure that his son was okay was banished from his mind.

"What happened? Are you okay? Are either if you hurt?" Umar asked urgently, looking the five-year-olds up and down, but neither he nor Malik seemed to have so much as a skinned knee.

"N-no." Altaïr stuttered reluctantly, suddenly looking shy and insecure.

Umar's hand squeezed Altaïr's shoulder involuntarily. "Then what is it?"

"What wrong, bro-dah?" Kadar asked, waddling over and tugging at Malik's clothes, looking pleased with himself for managing a mostly coherent sentence.

Altaïr looked over at Malik uncertainly, who, bottom lip still quivering, nodded. Altaïr turned back towards his father and held out his hands to reveal a clearly dead golden eagle chick.

"Fix it." said Altaïr, "Please."

Umar closed his eyes, his frown deepening for a moment, sighing silently through his nose before looking back at his son, who was watching his father fretfully, his brown eyebrows drawn together.

"May I?" Umar asked delicately, holding out his hands for the tiny creature.

Altaïr nodded and slid the bird into his father's hands, still looking worried, but more hopeful now. "Please fix the bird." he said again, plaintively, his eyes wide.

Umar straightened up and inspected the tiny form in his hand, poking it and prodding it gently to assess how long it had been dead. Judging by the amount and type of feathers, it was about a week or so old. Umar came to the conclusion that it had been dead for at least fifteen minutes.

As Altaïr's father inspected the bird, Malik frantically explained to Faheem what happened.

"We- we were playing out in the garden, when we heard a weird noise. We went to investigate, and we found a cat attacking it-" the boy explained, gesturing with his hands as he spoke.

"_Attacking?_" Umar thought, "_More like trying to eat it, judging by the bite marks._"

"And we brought it to you, so you can fix it." Altaïr added earnestly, his wide eyes turning towards his father once more.

Umar crouched down and placed the bird back in Altaïr's hands before he turned both of the boys towards him. He put his left hand on Malik's right shoulder, and his right hand on Altaïr's left.

"I'm sorry," said Umar, looking both boys in the eye. "But there's nothing I could do. It is already dead."

Malik immediately burst into tears. He balled his hands into fists and rubbed his eyes as big, blubbery tears rolled down his cheeks. Faheem leaned over and ruffled his eldest son's hair, while Kadar grabbed Malik's left arm from behind, wedging himself in between Altaïr and his elder brother.

"Don't be sad Ma-lik." said the two-year old, looking more confused than anything else.

Altaïr glared at his father defiantly. He, too, had tears running down his face, but they weren't as loud or noticeable as Malik's sobs. Altaïr crossed his arms over his chest, the dead bird gripped in one of his hands, it's body limp.

"But whyyy?" Altaïr whined, "Daddy, please, why won't you fix it? You can fix anything! Please..."

"Nothing can bring back the dead, and I am not God." Umar said gently.

"But... But..." Altaïr cried desperately, his tears running down his face more thickly, now, "There has to be _something_ we can do..."

Umar paused for a moment to appreciate the irony of the situation, before he stood up and exchanged a helpless glance with Faheem, who's brow was furrowed. At their feet, seeing that both Altaïr and Malik were crying, Kadar began to cry, too, out of confusion. Faheem frowned, and looked down at the three of them.

"There is no magic on Earth that can bring back the dead." said Umar gently, "That bird's life has ended, an it can never come back."

At this, the children sobbed harder.

"We can't bring the bird back to life, but we can make him a grave." Faheem suggested, "Okay?"

The three children calmed down slowly, at the comfort of their fathers. Umar hugged Altaïr to his legs, and rubbing his brown, fledgling hair.

"O-okay." Altaïr said eventually, his voice muffled against Umar's legs.

Faheem gathered Kadar into his arms and Umar lead the two families down to the garden. Altaïr and Malik showed them where they had found the bird in the first place. To no one's surprise, there were tiny feathers everywhere, as a result of the tiny eagle's scuffle with the cat earlier.

Altaïr gently dug a tiny hole in the dirt next to the bush, while Malik held the bird with both hands standing behind him, and Faheem tried to stop Kadar from eating some of the feathers. Once the hole was deep enough, Malik slowly, reverently, put the bird into the tiny grave. Both of their faces etched with sorrow, Altaïr pushed the dirt back over the hole.

Altaïr moved over back by Umar, who held him close to his body, while Malik uttered a quick prayer in Arabic. Neither boys had been to a funeral that they could remember, so they weren't entirely sure what thy should an shouldn't do, but each had a basic grasp on the concept.

The two families stood there for about ten minutes, both fathers impressed with their sons for sitting so still and quiet for so long. The silence was broken when Altaïr's stomach growled. He shot a mortified glance at Malik and his father, his cheeks reddening slightly.

Faheem grinned slightly and Umar laughed. He clapped Altaïr on the back and said, "Why don't we get some lunch?"

Both Malik and Altaïr nodded enthusiastically, their faces breaking into wide grins, and Kadar bounced a little on his feet, clapping his hands together and saying, "Lunch! Lunch!"

The two families returned back to the main fortress of Masyaf and headed towards the mess hall, leaving the bird behind where it lay beneath the soil of the garden, quickly and forever forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2: Sibling Rivalry

**Age 6:**

Malik yanked the wooden figure out of Kadar's tiny hands, causing the latter to fall down on his butt and start crying. Malik turned away and crossed his arms over his chest, satisfied, until their mother came into the room, carrying a basket of now clean clothes in her arms. She frowned, taking in the scene, placing the basket delicately on the floor.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"Brubba took the doggie from me!"

Kadar wailed.

"Dog?" she asked sharply.

Malik reluctantly held out the little wooden dog statue that she had gotten him for his fifth birthday. "It's mine, and Kadar stole it." he said defensively.

"Malik, Kadar's only three." she said, taking it gently from his hands, "He doesn't know any better. Why don't you just let him play with it? Besides, your his older brother, and you're supposed to _protect_ Kadar, not be mean to him."

Their mother handed the toy to Kadar, who's crying ceased abruptly. Malik glared at them both and stomped out of their room, past their disapproving mother, arms still crossed over his chest. He ignored his mom sighing exasperatedly behind him, and calling out his name.

Malik stormed down the hall, ignoring everyone around him, muttering to himself, "Stupid Mom. Stupid Kadar, thinking he can take my things. They're so mean to me. Mom and Dad probably don't even like me, and that's why they tried to replace me with Kadar. That's so unfair! What did I do to them?"

"Malik?" he heard someone say from behind him.

Malik's small hands balled into fists and turned slowly, stiffly, to look at the speaker. His father looked down at him somewhat disapprovingly, one eyebrow quirked questioningly. Malik offered no answer and just stared at him, waiting for him to speak.

His father sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He took Malik's hand and lead him to a bench in the courtyard where they sat in silence. Malik still had his arms crossed and the bitter thoughts continued to run through his mind. He glared pointedly in another direction, looking anywhere other than his father.

"Malik, are we cruel to you?" his father asked suddenly.

"What?" Malik asked, startled, shooting a sideways glance at his father.

"Are we cruel to you?" he repeated, "Do we starve you? Beat you unnecessarily? Have we cast you out into the streets to live as a beggar? Left you in some city somewhere by yourself?"

"... No." Malik said, wondering what his father was getting at.

His expression turned stern and he gave his eldest son a sharp thwack to the back of his head. Malik yelped and clapped both hands on his head not because it hurt, but because he was surprised. Still, that didn't stop him from giving his father an over exaggerated look of utter betrayal.

"Then don't ever say that your mother and I don't love you." he said severely, crossing his own arms over his chest.

Malik looked down at his toes, ashamed, getting his father's point. "I'm sorry." he mumbled bashfully, " I just don't want Kadar to take my stuff." he added earnestly, looking up, his eyes wide.

"Kadar is only three." his father said, expression softening slightly, "He doesn't know any better."

"That's what Mom said." Malik muttered, looking away and kicking at the dirt with his toe.

"Your mother's correct." he said matter-of-factly, before ruffling his son's hair and adding, "Don't you worry, Kadar won't be three forever and he'll grow out of it. You did, after all."

"I... did?" Malik spluttered, surprised. He couldn't recall ever going through such a phase.

"Yes." said his father, "A day did not go by when Altaïr did not come running to us, yelling that you took his stuff again."

"Really?" Malik asked somewhat timidly.

His father nodded. "Now, I suggest you go back to our room and apologize to your little brother."

Malik nodded, bit his lip, and nodded again before standing up from the little bench. He looked at his father, awaiting, expecting him to go back to the room with him, but he just shook his head and said that he needed to speak with Al Mualim, and that he had delayed enough already.

When Malik got back to the room, Kadar had abandoned the toy dog on the floor near his bed and was playing with some of his own toys as their mother put away their clean laundry with her back to them.

Malik picked up the dog and fidgeted with it in his hands for a moment before crossing the room and handing it stiffly to his younger brother. Kadar broke into a huge, goofy, grin with gaps where his lower canine teeth were growing in, that was sweet in a certain way at the same time. The three year old gently took the dog from his elder brother's outstretched hands and began to play with it.

Malik nodded, satisfied, and left the room once more, wondering if he could possibly find Altaïr to play with.

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Based loosely on the short at the end of the bonus short at the end of the Fullmetal Alchemist manga, book fourteen.

Most older siblings probably experienced this feeling before. I know I remember feeling betrayed by my parents when my little sister was born, because suddenly they weren't paying as much attention to me any more. ;)


	3. Chapter 3: The Bullies

**Age 8:**

Altaïr's body ached as he slowly hobbled his way back to the bedroom he shared with his father. He stuck close to the stone wall, staying in the shadows so nobody would notice him or ask him what was wrong.

The bruises on his arms from where they had grabbed him were an ugly brownish purple color and were throbbing painfully. He could taste the metallic tang of blood from where one of them had knocked one of his baby teeth out. His shins ached with each step, where another had kicked him, hard. His knuckles were sore from where he managed to punch them a couple of times.

This was the third day in a row that this had happened. There were three of them, all older than he, but not by too much. They had cornered him, two grabbing his arms and the third would beat him, demanding to know why Altaïr looked so different compared to everyone else at Masyaf. Questions Altaïr had no answer for.

Children, who did not yet understand the ways of the world, were often afraid of what they did not understand, which was why they targeted Altaïr. He would find himself wishing that they would be more like Malik who, when he didn't understand something, would seek out the answer, whether by asking someone or by book. However, the bullies were as stupid as they were cruel, and most likely did not even consider that as an option.

Today, however, Altaïr had managed to break free from his captors before the beating could get too bad, swing a couple of punches at the faces of his tormentors and run away, hiding in one of the haystacks beneath a tower while they hunted for him, before making his way slowly and carefully back to his room, lest they still be searching.

Once he had returned to his room, he locked the door, in case the bullies were still looking for him, and would think to look for him there. Although, Altaïr believed that the bullies were too stupid to actually look in there; maybe it was too obvious? Maybe they didn't know where he lived? He didn't know.

Altaïr sat down on his bed, hugging a pillow to his chest, his knees folded against it. He stayed that way for a long while, allowing himself to rest, his eyes subconsciously drooping. Eventually he allowed himself to tip over, and his consciousness to fade.

Altaïr dreamed of when he was older. He was one of the best assassins in the order, just as good as or even better than his father, along with Malik. The two of them would often go on missions together, and were an inspiration to many of the younger assassins. Al Mualim sent the two of them on the most dangerous missions, returning victorious and without incident each time. Eventually, Kadar joined Altaïr and his elder brother in the ranks of the Master Assassins. The best part of the dream, however, was the look of pride on his father's face, whenever Altaïr returned from another mission...

Altaïr jerked awake at the sound of the bedroom door being unlocked. He sat bolt upright, panicked; how long had he been out? Altaïr scowled at his own stupidity. How could he have fallen asleep!? His father would _surely_ question him as to why the door was locked with him inside.

Altaïr watched as his father enter the room. The Master Assassin turned, when he saw his son sitting on the bed, hugging his pillow guiltily to himself. His father raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for Altaïr to explain himself.

"What are you doing?" he prompted, when his son did not speak.

"Nothing." Altaïr said too quickly.

Altaïr knew from a young age that his father was an assassin first and a father second, and that he probably didn't have time to deal with the problems that Altaïr may or may not have. Besides, Altaïr did not see fit to worry people he cared for when he didn't have to. That is why he gave Malik the same answer yesterday, when his dark, charcoal eyes looked at him questioningly after noticing the bruises on his arms.

Altaïr's father studied him, his arms crossed over his chest. "Stand up."

Altaïr obeyed nervously. He stood, shaking, as Umar lbn-La'Ahad studied him, taking in his bruises and black eye. From within his mouth, Altaïr's tongue poked at the gap where his tooth had been knocked out. Altaïr's hands fidgeted over his chest nervously.

"It's nothing!" Altaïr insisted.

His father glowered down at him, and Altaïr flinched, thinking that his father was angry at him. "Who did this to you?" he snarled.

"I- I don't know them." Altaïr muttered, his golden eyes flicking towards the floor nervously, "They're older than me."

His father sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair, irritated and somewhat exasperated. He looks down at his son, who shifted his toes inwards and bit his lip, studying the stone floor beneath his small leather shoes intently. His father pinched the bridge of his nose and paced back and forth for a moment or so before turning back towards Altaïr, scowling.

"You can't let them do this to you, Altaïr." he said roughly.

"I don't _let_ them do anything." Altaïr said defensively, "In fact, I think I actually managed to injure a couple of them today." he added proudly, recalling how he gave one of them a black eye.

"I mean you can't let them think they can do this to you at all." said his father, agitated, running his hands through his hair again.

Altaïr paused. "How?" he whispered, distressed.

His father crouched down to look at his son. "Make them know they can't mess with you." he said seriously.

Altaïr fell silent, pondering what his father had said. Once again, his leather boots shifted against the floor, as if ashamed. His father straightened again and gave Altaïr an appraising look, looking him up and down to see if he was terribly injured.

"I must speak with Al Mualim." he said eventually, turning towards the door and opening it. He shot one last glance at his son before he left, opening his mouth to say something more, before abruptly closing it again and ducking out of the room.

Altaïr sat back down on his bed, turning his father's words over in his mind, wondering what he should do. Eventually a plan formed in his mind. Not a very good plan, but maybe, just maybe it would work. Altaïr sled off of his bed and slipped off into the hall, heading towards the kitchens of the fortress.

He crept through the doors silently. None of the cooks noticed him, all had their backs to him as they prepared that night's dinner. Altaïr's golden eyes swept the room, quickly locating what he wanted on a cutting board next to a bloody chunk of what he guessed was lamb. The eight year old grabbed it from next to the meat and quickly ducked out of the room. Of course he had access to better ones, but one from the kitchen was least likely to be noticed absent. Besides, He could always return it later.

Altaïr returned to his room and hid it beneath his bed, wrapped in a cloth to keep it clean. It laid there like that for the rest of the night, until Altaïr got dressed in the morning and tucked it into his pants where it remained most of the day, unseen. He went about his business as usual, which at his age mostly meant playing with Malik and spying on the training Novices with him.

It wasn't until Malik left to go play in his room with Kadar that the bullies cornered Altaïr once more. The ringleader of the group seemed angrier than usual because of the black eye Altaïr had given him the previous day, and seemed determined to make him suffer for it. However, as the three older boys advanced, Altaïr drew the kitchen knife. The three boys froze, eyeing its shiny metal blade apprehensively.

"I will use this, you know." Altaïr growled, hoping they didn't notice the slight quiver in his voice, "I am not afraid."

The latter was a lie. Any child would be, but if they did try to harm him, he would attack. Being too young to train with actual weapons in actual fights, Altaïr didn't quite know how to use it, but the three bullies were as untrained as their would be victim, not to mention the three of them were unarmed. Altaïr had the upper hand in their situation.

"I will use this on you," Altaïr repeated, feeling stronger now at the scared and shocked looks on his tormentors' faces. "if you do not leave me, or any of my friends, alone." he added, thinking of Malik and Kadar.

"Fine." the leader hissed, his eyes not leaving the blade, "We were just playing, you know. But you took it too far."

"_Of course I did._" Altaïr thought savagely.

The three bullies turned and left, leaving Altaïr alone. Feeling incredibly proud of himself and self confident, he strode back to the kitchen and returned the knife, once again without being caught. Afterward he went back to his room to wait for his father to tell him all about his success.

The three bullies never bothered Altaïr again.

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I wasn't _too _pleased with the ending with this one, I thought it was kind of weak and cheesy. I hope you enjoyed it anyways.

Thank you all so much for the reviews! It really makes me happy to know that people are actually reading and, most importantly, actually _enjoying_ my writing! Thank you all so much! :D


	4. Chapter 4: Below the Dock

**Age 10:**

Altaïr could not understand why Malik enjoyed reading so much. In his eyes, it just seemed so boring and pointless. As a result, when he was sitting next to Malik at the dock next to the river while watching Kadar swim in the water, Altaïr kept poking Malik repeatedly on the shoulder.

"Malik, this is _boring_!" Altaïr groaned, kicking his legs over the water.

"For the love of... Shut _up__, _Altaïr!" Malik growled, clenching his book.

"Why can't we do something _fun_ for once?" complained Altaïr.

"You're welcome to get into the water if you want, and stop irritating me." Malik snapped.

Altaïr ignored him and continued to groan and grouse about how terribly boring it was to just sit there on the dock. Eventually, Malik got so fed up that he snapped his book shut and roughly shoved Altaïr into the water below, yelling at him to shut up.

Altaïr flew through the air and into the water below, and panic fluttered in his chest like a caged bird. He could hear the two Al-Sayfs snickering before his head went under water, for the two of them didn't seem to know that he couldn't swim. He looked up at Kadar, who was treading water at the surface, and tried to mimic his fluid, graceful movements, but Altaïr only managed to push himself further down.

Altaïr opened his mouth in panic, and his breath flew upwards in a stream of bubbles. He tried to scream but more bubbles just emptied out of his mouth. He accidentally inhaled water, coughing and sputtering, and a burning sensation started to creep into his body.

**"**No! Help! Please!" Altaïr tried to scream, only managing to draw more salt water into his already burning lungs.

Silence seemed to be closing in on him as he flailed around, trying to force himself upwards, but he couldn't; Altaïr only seemed to be moving downwards and away from the poles that were supporting the dock above. He kicked his feet, searching desperately for some traction, or quite possibly something to push up from, but finding nothing.

**"**_No! Not like this!_**" **he thought desperately.

Seconds felt like hours as Altaïr whipped his head around, trying to look for something to push off from, but the nearest pole supporting the dock he could possibly climb up was too far away; he couldn't possibly struggle fast enough to get there in time, let alone to climb it. Besides, even from that distance Altaïr could tell that it was slimy, and there were no good hand holds on it, so he probably wouldn't be able to climb it anyways.

Altaïr's vision was starting to darken, and what he could see was blurring. A horrible feeling of euphoria washed over him. His mind started to slow down, and he felt completely relaxed. Altaïr stopped struggling, and if he were able, he would have sighed in bliss. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what was happening, and it scared him.**  
**

Altaïr was dying, and there was nothing he could do. He was going to drown.

He pictured the faces of the other assassins; of his friends, of his family. His father. Faheem. Al Mualim. Kadar. Malik. Every single person Altaïr had ever known, in Masyaf. He pictured their faces, sad, but attempting to stay stoic, at his funeral. _His__ funeral._

**"**_Would they even bother to retrieve my body?_**" **Altaïr found himself thinking dully, wondering how many people would bother coming to a foolish ten year old's funeral, barely conscious anymore. He wondered why he didn't just let go, and allow himself to die.

Altaïr looked up towards the surface, his eyelids half closed. He thought he see a dark shape moving towards him, a hand reaching out to grab his own. He reached out for the shape, in spite of himself. Altaïr didn't care that he was dead; not even a little bit.

The hand closed around Altaïr's wrist and the shape moved upwards, dragging him along with it. It took Altaïr a moment to realize that we were, indeed, heading towards the surface, and that the water around him seemed to be rushing downwards. However, he was confused; what was going on?

The two heads broke the surface, but still it seemed that Altaïr could not breath. But that did not seem to bother his body, which seemed to know what to do; it convulsed, and Altaïr vomited sea water and bits of food into the water around us. He could not see, but he could tell that his rescuer was dragging him ashore, his left hand still holding onto the wrist of Altaïr's right arm, which was now slung over his shoulders. He was dimly aware of people talking, but he couldn't make out the words.

Once Altaïr's stomach emptied itself of its contents, he gratefully drew the sweet, sweet oxygen into his lungs. It felt like heaven. As he laid on his back on the sandy shore, as the clear, azure blue sky slowly came into focus, Altaïr promised that he would never take air for granted again. Altaïr was still too exhausted and out of breath to laugh, but he felt almost giddy with amazement that he was still alive.

Slowly, the angry, disapproving face of Altaïr's rescuer came into focus. He looked down at him, soaking wet, his clothes and hair dripping onto Altaïr's face. His arms were crossed over his chest as he glared at him, and yet he had never been so happy to see someone in my entire, short, miserable life.

**"**What the _hell _do you think you were doing?" Malik hissed.

**"**Oh, you know." Altaïr said weakly, once he found his voice again, "Just drowning."

**"**You moron." he snarled, starting to pace, "Can't you swim?"

**"**You think that'd be obvious." Altaïr said, ignoring the obvious jibe.

Malik glared at him, his charcoal eyes seeming to bore into Altaïr's soul, shaking his head in irritation, muttering to himself about how stupid he was.

"Can't your dad teach you or something?" asked Kadar timidly, suddenly coming into view.

"He's too busy." Altaïr muttered, "Why didn't you immediately go after me when I went under?"

**"**We thought you were just joking." Kadar mumbled, "Like you were trying to make Malik feel bad for pushing you in."

**"**After a couple moments we realized that you actually needed help." Malik added.

Altaïr suddenly became aware of how cold it was. The air was biting at his cold, wet skin, and when Altaïr shivered violently, and the two other boys noticed, watching him with careful eyes, Malik's dark brown, Kadar's bright blue.

**"**Can you stand?" Malik sighed, obviously still irritated, after a second or two.

**"**Maybe." he said, noticing that his voice was still weak and scratchy.

Malik held out his hand, and pulled him shakily to his feet. Leaning heavily on him for support, the three of them headed back up the hill to Masyaf.

**"**By the way," Malik said, shooting him a sideways glance as they walked. "do you want to learn _how_ to swim? Our dad can teach you."

**"**Not in a million years." Altaïr said bitterly, "I am never doing that again."


	5. Chapter 5: Son of None

**Age 11:**

Altaïr and Malik were in the bedroom that the former shared with his father. Altaïr was sprawled on his own bed, facing the ceiling, while Malik bounced on Umar's bed, giddy in his enthusiasm.

They had been told a couple of days ago that they would soon become novices to the order, and both boys were brimming with excitement and, despite the siege occurring, with an army attacking Masyaf, the two boys were without a care in the world.

They were old enough to understand that their home was under attack, and that they were in danger, but they didn't understand who was leading the siege, or why, and both boys were too absorbed in their own exhilaration that they didn't bother to ask. After all, it didn't particularly concern them, right?

"I hope it's soon." said Malik reverently, "I just can't wait to _finally_ become a Novice!"

Altaïr sat bolt upright in his bed and turned towards his friend, his face broken into a huge grin. "We should ask Al Mualim!" he said excitedly.

Malik's head bobbed in agreement. "We should!" he agreed in equal enthusiasm.

"We should ask him, right now!" Altaïr said, leaping to his feet and grabbing Malik's arm to pull him into a standing position.

The two children ran through Masyaf towards Al Mualim's office, only to find it empty. They frowned, confused, before asking a random assassin where they could find him. The assassin seemed somewhat dazed, his eyes blank as he addressed the two boys.

"Oh... He's outside, addressing the enemy. I wouldn't go out there, though, if I were you." he said.

Altaïr nodded, and turned around, heading for the courtyard outside. Malik paused only to thank the man before heading out after his friend.

Out in the courtyard, it took Altaïr and Malik a couple moments to locate Al Mualim, who was standing on one of the highest towers of the fortress with two other men that the two children recognized as their fathers.

The main gate to the fortress was closed, and a small crowd of maybe about twenty assassins was standing directly in front of it, although the two boys could see a group of people from the opposing army standing on the other side.

"His Majesty Salah Al'din accepts your offer of peace." a man from the group of people outside of the gate, an envoy most likely, called up to Al Mualim.

Malik froze and grabbed Altaïr's arm. "That man was right, we shouldn't be here." he hissed, "We can ask Al Mualim later."

Altaïr jerked his arm away. "No, I want to see what's going on."

Malik scowled at him, before turning away and running back to the fortress without another word. Altaïr positioned himself so that he could have a clearer view of what was happening both within and outside the walls of Masyaf.

"Have we his assurance that our sect can operate without further hostilities, and no further interference with our activities?" asked Al Mualim.

"As long as interests allow, you have that assurance." said the envoy.

"Then I accept His Majesty's offer." came Al Mualim's reply, sounding pleased, "You may remove your men from Masyaf. Perhaps you would be good enough to restore our stockade before you go."

Through the crowd, Altaïr could see a man on a strong, white stallion lean over and whisper something to the envoy, who nodded as the man on horseback spoke to him.

The envoy shouted back up towards the tower, "During the delivery of the message, one of Salah Al'din's most trusted generals was killed. His Majesty requires reparation. The head of the culprit."

The entire courtyard went quiet. The only sounds were the sound of horses, the wind, and bird song.

Altaïr frowned; he knew that Malik was right, that this was probably something that he shouldn't be seeing, but at that point his curiosity had sparked, and he was extremely curious of who the "culprit" was. Odds were that it was someone he did not know, but he was curious anyways.

"You may tell the Sultan that I reject his demand." Al Mualim answered.

The man on horseback shrugged, an leaned over to speak to the envoy once more.

"His Excellency wishes to inform you that unless you agree to the demand a force will remain here at Masyaf, and that our patience is greater than your store of supplies." called the envoy, "Would you have the peace agreement count for nothing? Would you allow your villagers and your men to starve, all for the head of one assassin? His Excellency dearly hopes not."

From up on the tower, Altaïr could see his father shift and say something he could not hear to Al Mualim. The master ignored whatever Altaïr's father had to say, and addressed the invaders once more.

"I will not give up the life of one of my men." said the old man of the mountain.

"Then His Excellency regrets your decision, and asks that you bare witness to another matter in need of resolution. We have discovered the existence of a spy in our camp, and he must be executed." the envoy called up to the tower.

On the other side of the gate, Altaïr could see the men drag out another man in once- white assassin robes. His face was battered and bloody, and his eye lids were half closed, indicating that he was barely conscious. Altaïr recognized the man as Ahmad Sofian. Although he had never really spoken to the man, Altaïr knew that he had a son a little bit older than he called Abbas. Altaïr didn't really know Abbas, but at that point in time he hoped that, for his own sake, Abbas was inside the fortress of Masyaf, so he wouldn't have to witness what was about to happen.

Behind Ahmad came two men baring an executioner's block, who placed it on the ground before the important looking man's stallion. After them came the executioner, bearing a wickedly sharp, jeweled scimitar at his hip.

Ahmad was dragged to the executioner's block and was draped there, throat up. The executioner took his position, planting his feet wide and with both hands on his scimitar, raised it high in the air, angling it so that its blade caught the sunlight.

"Let your man take his place," the envoy drawled. "and his life will be spared, the peace treaty honored. If not, he dies, the siege begins, and your people starve."

The man on horseback raised his head to shout up at the tower, "Do you want that on your conscience, Umar lbn-La'Ahad?"

Altaïr froze as the other assassins within the courtyard in took their breath sharply. The world around him seemed to fall away around him as the man's words and what was happening came into sharper focus. They wanted to kill his father. They wanted to take him away from Altaïr. They wanted to orphan him.

But he wouldn't give himself up, right? Right?

Horror struck, Altaïr looked over through the gate at Ahmad. This was_ his_ fault. _He_ was the one who gave up his father's name. Clearly under torture, of course, but he gave him up nonetheless.

From upon the tower, Altaïr could see his father shift from next to Al Mualim, who's shoulders were slumped. Faheem Al-Sayf stood a short distance behind them, spine stiff and face impassive.

"Last chance, assassin!" yelled the man on horseback.

"Stop!" Umar's voice rang about the courtyard. Altaïr's heart sank. He watched as his father moved to a platform of the tower and continued to address the man on horseback, "I am Umar lbn-La'Ahad. It is my life you should take."

On the other side if the gate, the men muttered excitedly to one another. The man on horseback smirked as Ahmad, still pressed against the executioner's block, moaned softly to himself. The man on horseback nodded at the executioner, who lowered the point of his blade to the ground and stepped back from Ahmad.

"Very well." said the man to Altaïr's father, "Come, take your place on the block."

Altaïr couldn't move; his legs seemed to have turned to lead, and were rooted to the spot as he watched his father look up and speak briefly to Al Mualim, once again sharing words that the eleven year old could not hear, before descending one of the many latters leading into the courtyard below, which seemed to have had an eerie, mournful silence cloaking it.

Altaïr's father walked through the clearing, his steps echoing against the stone and bouncing against the walls as he stepped. As Umar reached the crowd of assassins just on the inside of the gate, they parted for him like the sea, leaving his path to the gate clear. At the wicket gate, someone rushed forward to open it for him.

Altaïr forced himself into movement, and made his voice work. "FATHER!" he shouted, his strangled cry echoing as Umar's footsteps had done.

Altaïr ran forward to where the path through the assassins was already filling in. Several of them on the edge threw him piteous glances, but no one spoke.

"FATHER!" Altaïr yelled again.

He started to attempt to force his way through the crowd. Now the assassin's reacted, attempting to push him back, hissing at him that he should go back inside of the fortress, and that he shouldn't witness this. However, he ignored them and continued to try to get to his father.

Altaïr heard the sound of the wicket gate opening and then closing again after a moments pause, opening wide enough just for his father to slip outside beneath them, leaving Masyaf forever.

"_No! No! No!_" thought Altaïr desperately, "_You can't kill him! He's the only family I have left!_"

Altaïr could hear a groan from Ahmad on the other side of the gate as the invaders dumped him outside of the gate. The wicket gate opened once more as a couple of assassins dragged Ahmad inside and hauled him gently to his feet.

"_I have to stop them!_" Altaïr repeated these words over and over in his mind like a mantra, almost verging on madness.

He ran around the edge of the crowd and forced himself through the assassins next to the stone wall of the fortress. He grabbed the bars of the gate with his right hand while his left reached through, desperately grabbing at his father who's head was turned away from him as his neck was rested and exposed on the executioner's block. The executioner once again took his stance.

"FATHER!" Altaïr screamed once more before he was jerked backwards and folded into someone's arms.

From behind him, Altaïr could hear a swishing sound, and froze. Then, sickeningly, there was a dull _thump_ as what Altaïr knew to be his father's head hitting the ground. Altaïr's face paled, and his golden eyes widened in horror, his mouth open in a silent scream.

"Let me go! Let me go!" Altaïr shrieked, thrashing harder than ever to escape the hands holding him, to escape Masyaf, to reach the other side of the gate to be with his father.

"No, child." said a rough, scratchy voice.

Altaïr looked up to see the battered and bloody face of Ahmad, the man whom his father had given up his life to save. He didn't care that Ahmad was so weak that he was barely able to stand, he had been tortured, and he was probably already terribly ashamed that he had given up Umar's name to the enemy. He only cared that his father had given himself up to die because of _that man_.

"IT'S YOUR FAULT!" Altaïrscreamed, twisting and pulling his body away from Ahmad, who's head was hung in shame. Ahmad's eyes were squeezed shut in acknowledgment of Altaïr's words. He absorbed each word like another blow to the stomach.

"It's your fault." Altaïr spat bitterly.

Altaïr's ankles lost feeling and he sank to his knees in the grass. He pressed his elbows to his knees and buried his face into the heels of his hands, crying brokenly, sobs racking his tiny body as he tried to block out the world, and trying desperately to convince himself that what had just happened didn't.

He didn't know how long he sat there, but eventually he became aware that the crowd had retrieved his father's body and taken it back to the main fortress along with Ahmad, who had collapsed from exhaustion.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Altaïr could hear his father speaking, telling him a story from when he was little. "_Of course, I had a different last name when I lived with my parents, your grandparents, on their sheep farm, but that's not important. I was always bored with that life, and so I left. I left, changed my last name to_ lbn-La'Ahad,_ and found the fabled fortress of assassins that my father would tell me and my three older brothers tales of when we were younger."_

_lbn'La-Ahad; son of none_. Altaïr truly belonged to his name now. He had no one left in the world. He was all alone. He had never had a mother, and now his father was gone too. He was orphaned.

These thoughts brought on another wave of grief, and Altaïr released another strangled sob. His fingers ran through his brown hair, making it messier than it was before.

The sky above turned orange and yellow as the sun dipped below into the mountains surrounding the fortress. Altaïr's shadow lengthened and his limbs became stiff for sitting curled up there for so long. Eventually the eleven-year-old heard the sound of approaching footsteps, but he was too miserable and depressed to look up to see who it was. The person crouched down next to him and put his hand on Altaïr's back, who took another shaking breath and hiccuped slightly.

When the person spoke, he spoke with the voice of Faheem Al-Sayf. "Come on." he said gruffly, "You must be tired. Why don't we head back to the fortress? Don't you want some dinner?"

Altaïr hesitated and mutely shook his head, which was still buried into his hands.

Faheem released a sigh through his nose. "Well, you shouldn't stay here. Why don't you at least go back to your room? You aught to rest."

Altaïr looked up slowly with tear-stained cheeks. Faheem's face was drawn, and he was tired and haggard. Most of all, however, Faheem looked concerned for the child before him, which Altaïr found surprising, for some reason.

"O-okay." Altaïr whispered, his voice hoarse.

Slowly, with Faheem's help, Altaïr got to his feet. Faheem led the distraught child back to the castle, and all the way to in front of the door to the room he shared, or used to share, with his father. Altaïr was about to open the door and go inside, but Faheem stopped him. He put his hands gently on Altaïr's shoulders and crouched down so that he was eye-level with him.

"If you ever need anything, anything at all, feel free to ask." said Faheem seriously.

He straightened, looking like he wanted to say something else, but shook his head and headed off in the direction of his own room. Altaïr took a deep breath and attempted to gather his courage before opening the door to the small bedroom. He took one look at his own, smaller bed before turning towards the larger one that had belonged to his father before laying face down in the latter, tears running down the orphan's face once more.

* * *

Dialogue from "The Secret Crusade" by Oliver Bowden.

This may make me a horrible person, but I was really looking forward to this chapter. I find it easy and fun to write about extreme emotions such as fury or grief. There are just so many words you can use, provided you have a good vocabulary, and for some reason it just seems to flow a little smoother.


	6. Chapter 6: The Scar

I wanted to do a chapter on how Altair got the scar across his mouth, and this is it. I was torn, because I wanted to do something where he saves someone from something, and gets the scar that way, but I also liked the idea of Al Mualim giving him the scar, too, so I tried to find some way to combine the two, and this was the result. :)

I have a question for my readers; should I end the series when Altair and Malik are still young (I was thinking of ending it around age twenty seven), or end it later on, when they're older (i.e, stories from both _The Secret_ _Crusade_, and Revelations, including both of their deaths). What do you think? I want your opinion.

* * *

**Age 12:**

Malik and Altaïr rarely had time to study and train with one another, what between Altaïr's frequent trainings with Abbas and Al Mualim, and the daily chaos that was a part of being a novice assassin, but the two always attempted to make time for each other.

One hot summer afternoon, with the sun beating down on them, Malik and Altaïr trained in sword fighting in the ring. The other Novices near their age, Al Mualim, and Labib, the group's mentor, stood at the edge of the ring, watching them.

Altaïr planted his feet wide and angled his wooden sword at Malik, who did the same, both shifting their weight on the back foot, each expecting the other to strike first. When neither of them did, Altaïr decided to attack. He lunged forward and arced his sword high in a strike that would have caught Malik on his head if he hadn't blocked it. Malik attempted to strike at Altaïr's side, but he too blocked, before twisting his wooden blade against Malik's, sending it flying out of his hand. Altaïr kicked his leg behind Malik's ankles, sending him tumbling to the ground. Altaïr pointed his wooden sword directly at Malik's neck.

"Knock him out, Altaïr." called Al Mualim blatantly.

Altaïr frowned. "_What was the point? I've already won._" he thought.

Altaïr recalled last week when one of the Novices had knocked another out, the one who had been knocked out said that, when he had woken up about a day later, his vision was blurry, he had a pounding headache, and he had trouble speaking. Altaïr looked down at Malik, who's dark eyes stared up at the former challengingly, and he couldn't imagine doing that to him.

So Altaïr ignored Al Mualim and lowered his sword. With his free hand, he pulled Malik to his feet. Malik stared at him in surprise, his eyebrows raised, but he nodded his thanks. Altaïr could tell that he was thinking about the Novice from last week, too.

The two looked over at the other assassins. The other Novices looked confused, and Labib looked annoyed. Al Mualim looked surprised, but his expression was slowly transforming into fury. Altaïr, subconsciously bit his lip.

"Malik, get out of the ring." said the master coldly.

Altaïr, a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, watched Malik cross the training ring to pick up his fallen sword before clambering out of the side, as Al Mualim climbed inside, and pulled out his own steel sword.

As soon as Altaïr had helped Malik to his feet, he knew that he would have to be punished. He disobeyed a direct order from Al Mualim, and he must be made an example of. He knew that Al Mualim needed to maintain control over the order, and that those who disobeyed his orders would need to be punished, especially if they disobeyed him publicly. _Was it worth it?_ Altaïr wondered silently, as Al Mualim strode towards him, his robes billowing behind him.

"_Yes._" the more righteous part of him insisted.

"Stand still." Al Mualim commanded.

Altaïr braced, as Al Mualim slashed and cut at Altaïr's skin. The cuts weren't deep enough to do any actual damage, but they still stung. Although as time progressed, Altaïr's wounds became more and more painful, until it was all he could do not to cry out in pain, because he knew that if he cried out, he would have to stay up there for even longer.

This sort of thing happened on occasion in Al Mualim's private study, whether the master was training him to withstand pain, or he actually had defied him somehow. Like most teachers, Al Mualim picked favorites, which meant that Altaïr got beaten more often than Abbas. Al Mualim had chosen Altaïr as his favorite, which meant that he was tougher on him. Privately, at that moment in the training ring, Altaïr was grateful that the master was going so easy on him.

Eventually, Altaïr couldn't keep it in any longer, and released a quiet sigh if pain. Al Mualim raised the eyebrow over his bad eye, and rammed the flat of his blade against Altaïr's hand, making the wooden sword fly out of his hand, before slashing his blade down across his face.

A large gash opened up across his mouth, opening his lips grotesquely, revealing his teeth every time he moved his face. Altaïr gasped in surprise, clapping his hands to his face, smearing them with blood, which oozed from the wound out between his fingers. Al Mualim nodded like he was satisfied, before ramming his fist into Altaïr's temple.

The world jerked out from beneath him, and Altaïr fell forward onto the ground. The world continued to spin sickeningly, and the twelve-year-old's vision blurred, black spots popping on his vision. He was vaguely aware of someone saying something, most likely Al Mualim, and there was a couple moments pause before Altaïr felt two sets of hands haul him to his feet and start to drag him somewhere. Next thing he knew the worried faces of Malik and Abbas were staring down at him from next to the ring.

"Are you okay?" Abbas asked roughly as the two helped him sit up after a moment or so or rest.

Altaïr opened his mouth to speak, but the skin around the mutilated wound on his mouth flapped ghoulishly, so Altaïr fell silent, and put one hand over his mouth before nodding.

Malik sighed, exasperated, and said, "No you're not."

Altaïr didn't move, because he knew that Malik was right. Every part if his body ached, his head throbbed painfully, and his multiple cuts stung. Altaïr sighed from behind his hand an leaned against the side of the training ring, where he could hear two other Novices now fighting inside.

The three sat there mutely for a little while, Abbas's lips pinched together in worry, and Malik staring at Altaïr searchingly for a while, subconsciously cleaning his wounds with a cloth, until the sounds of combat from within the ring abruptly ceased.

"Abbas! Rauf!" Al Mualim called, "You two are next!"

Abbas nodded, shot a glance at Altaïr, before standing up and scurrying away, leaving Altaïr alone with Malik.

"Come on." Malik said, "We need to get you some medical attention."

Altaïr hesitated, and shook his head without really knowing why.

Malik scowled at him. "Don't be stupid." he snapped.

Malik grabbed Altaïr's arm in a way Altaïr was sure was meant to be gentle, and pulled him to his feet. Altaïr released a small cry of pain, muffled behind his hand. Malik practically dragged Altaïr before the master.

"Master," Malik said, his head bowed respectfully. "may I have permission to take Altaïr to the infirmary?"

Al Mualim paused, tearing his eyes away from Abbas and Rauf in the ring to study the two boys before him.

"Fine." he said eventually, "And let this be a warning, Altaïr." he added.

Malik lead Altaïr through the halls of Masyaf. Even though he knew exactly where the infirmary was, Altaïr allowed his friend to half-drag him by his free arm, his right hand still clapped over his mouth.

Once they reached the infirmary, a medic immediately swooped down on them. "What can I do for you, boys?" he asked kindly.

"We had a training accident." said Malik smoothly, pulling Altaïr's hand away from his mouth.

The medic inspected him for a moment before smiling lightly and sitting Altaïr down in a chair.

"Nothing to worry about, dear." he said kindly, "You just need some stitches."

After the medic cleaned up the blood and stitched Altaïr's face back together, a procedure that would have made a normal child his age cry, the medic informed him that he would make a full recovery and that he'll have a lisp for a little while while it healed, and reminding him blatantly to be more careful next time, the medic sent the two boys on their way.

They were about to head back when, just outside of the infirmary when Altaïr grabbed Malik's shoulder, stopping him. Malik paused and turned around, an eyebrow quirked questioningly.

Altaïr shifted on his feet uncomfortably before muttering, "Thanks."

Malik allowed a small smile to grace his lips. "No need to thank me. Besides, I should be thanking you. You didn't knock me out."

Altaïr shrugged nonchalantly. "We should probably head back."


	7. Chapter 7: Orphans

**Age 13:**

In the year one thousand, one hundred sixty-three, Faheem Al-Sayf was sent on an unusually long mission to Jerusalem that took the bulk of two months. During that time, he spent a lot of the time in the market place, even after he had collected the necessary information from that area of the city, because, as he would tell his children later on, he wanted to watch the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Junah El-Amin was the daughter of a merchant. She had long, dark hair and bright blue eyes that shined through her veil, hinting at a mixed heritage that was not apparent anywhere else. She and Faheem were fairly close in age, although most of her friends were already married and had children by the time Faheem came to Jerusalem. This was mostly due to the fact that her father was a difficult man to please. Not because he was greedy, and wanted a lot of value in his dowry, but because he believed that his only child deserved the very best, when it came to marriage, and rejected every man who attempted to court her, believing them unworthy for his daughter.

Faheem was no acceptation. When he finally worked up the courage to speak to her, both Junah and her father were unimpressed, and rejected him. However, Faheem was persistent, and visited her every day, and eventually Junah fell for him too. Her father took a lot of convincing, but he could see that the two were truly in love, and eventually agreed.

In the last couple of days of Faheem's visit to Jerusalem, the assassin completed his mission and married Junah, before the newly wed couple headed back to Masyaf. Along the way, Faheem explained to Junah what he was, and what their order did, but her love for him did not waver in the slightest.

Two years later, during which time Faheem's friend, Umar lbn-La'Ahad, had married his wife, Junah gave birth to their first son with no complications. A couple of weeks later, Umar's own wife gave birth to their son, but she unfortunately died in the process. Three years later, Junah gave birth to their second child, once again producing a healthy baby boy.

In the year one thousand, one hundred seventy eight, when Malik was thirteen and Kadar was ten, Junah became very ill. She was constantly feverish and her hands would shake when she lifted them. She was bound to her bed all day every day, because she was too weak to sit up, or even feed herself. Junah was slowly wasting away from the inside, and the medics of Masyaf did not know what was wrong with her, or how to fix her. Faheem and their children would come to her bedside as often as they could, until one day Al Mualim wanted to sent Faheem on a mission to Acre.

Faheem consulted his wife about it, who said, "Go, my love, and do your master's work. I will still be here when you get back, you needn't worry."

And so Faheem, still reluctant to go, left the next day. A week later, Junah Al-Sayf and her sons received word that Faheem had been killed out on mission, and that his corpse was not in a state pleasant enough to be seen by his family.

If anything, the news of Faheem's death made Junah's condition worse. She had lost the will to live, not even to raise her two sons. Through out most of the day, she would stare blankly at the ceiling, while the medics attempted to make her better. She was so ill that she couldn't be moved to the infirmary. At night, however, she would often cry out to Faheem, begging him to come home, which frightened Kadar, leaving Malik to awkwardly attempt to comfort his younger brother.

On a cool, October evening, two weeks after Faheem's death, Malik was in one of the large libraries of the fortress, hunched over an ancient tome on how to have better form in sword fighting, and how to know when to strike. The light from the window was fading, and he knew that he would have to light a few candles soon if he wanted to continue reading.

"Malik! Brother!" he heard Kadar's voice call from the hall, along with the thumping sound that indicated he was running.

Kadar ran through the open doorway of the library, but Malik did not look up. He only paused to close his eyes and grimace, before looking back at his book.

"Kadar, leave me alone." he snapped, "Can't you see I'm trying to r-"

"It's _mother._" Kadar said plaintively.

Malik blanched and stared over at his brother, whom he could now see looked scared, panicked, and worried. Malik leaped to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair in the process.

"What happened?" he demanded, "Is she...?" he couldn't bare to finish the thought.

"N-not yet." Kadar said, his voice quivering.

Malik bolted past Kadar and headed directly towards the room that the four of them used to share, Kadar following close behind. He burst through the door, to find two medics already inside. One was packing away most if the medical supplies and the other was crouched next to an empty chair beside the bed where their mother laid, a damp cloth covering her eyes as she panted for breath.

Malik and Kadar stood in the doorway, paralyzed with anxiety as their gazes rested on the scene within the room. The medic, who was a woman, which gave Malik a mild jolt of surprise, beside the bed looked up when she saw them enter, and waved them over before gently speaking to their mother in quiet, hushed tones.

"Junah, can you hear me? Your sons are here to see you." said the medic.

"Mother?" Kadar asked cautiously as they approached.

Their mother began to whisper something frantically that neither Malik nor Kadar could hear. The medic, on the other hand, leaned forward so that her ear was next to their mother's mouth before nodding and gently removing the cloth from her eyes.

Her bloodshot, cerulean eyes flicked over to her sons' haunted, worried faces, drinking in their appearance hungrily, as they took in her weakened state, their faces etched with sadness as they attempted to remain stoic, although neither were sure if it was for their own sake, or the sake of their mother.

"We did everything we could," said the female medic quietly, next to Malik's ear. "But I'm afraid that there isn't much else we can do."

"Could you leave us?" Malik whispered.

The medic nodded, and tapped the second medic on the shoulder before the two of them vacated the room, leaving Malik and Kadar alone with their mother.

Hesitantly, Malik sat down on the chair next to her bed as Kadar crouched down next to it and held their mother's hand. Junah's eyes flicked back and forth between her two sons' faces, as if determined to drink in their features for as long as she possibly could.

"I'm sorry." she croaked weakly.

"Don't be." said Malik immediately.

"You have nothing to be sorry for." Kadar said, then added plaintively, "Please don't go."

"I love you." she said weakly, "Both of you."

"I love you too." said Kadar.

"I love you, mother." Malik whispered.

"I... I am very proud of you both." she said, "I want you to be careful. You-" she broke into a hacking fit, and the two brothers exchanged a glance before she continued, "You both deserve long, and happy lives."

"O-of course." Kadar stammered.

Junah nodded, before her gaze slid over to Malik. "Take care of your brother. Please."

"I promise." he said quietly.

"_What, did she think I would just abandon him?_" Malik thought sharply, "_He's my brother. Sure we fight sometimes, but it's natural._"

However, at Malik's words, their mother visibly relaxed. She sighed in relief and closed her eyes, whispering, "Thank you."

The three sat in silence for another minute, each feeling like they had something else to say. Kadar, in fact, looked like he was on the verge of speaking, when their mother inhaled deeply though her nose and released it through her mouth. She ceased moving.

Kadar had tears gushing down his face, and Malik pulled him close. He held his younger brother close, allowing Kadar's tears to dampen his shirt. Although deeply, agonizingly saddened, he did not allow himself to cry; he had to be strong for Kadar's sake. Malik was all he had now. He was all Kadar would ever have, now.

* * *

Sorry for the sad chapter, guys. Don't worry, though, the next one should have _some_ humor. :)


	8. Chapter 8: Rooftop Race

**Age 14:**

True to his promise to his mother, ever since his parents' death, Malik took full responsibility for caring for Kadar. Of course, a couple of other assassins offered to take care of the two boys, much like how Al Mualim took care of Altaïr and Abbas when the former's father was killed and the latter's father disappeared, but Malik declined them. In his mind, he thought that they didn't think he could handle the responsibility of caring for his little brother, and he wanted to prove them wrong.

This put Malik in an interesting position, acting both as an elder brother and a parental figure to Kadar. He acted as a brother most of the time, but he took over the responsibilities their parents had had, such as washing their clothes and cutting Kadar's hair, among other things. He would speak to Kadar's master, asking where in the assassins' curriculum he was falling behind, and studying them intently, so that he could teach Kadar how to do it properly. This helped Malik to almost catch up to Altaïr, who seemed like he was _constantly_ practicing, even when he should have been asleep.

However, caring for Kadar left Malik with very little time to himself, which he mostly spent either trying to catch up on sleep, or studying. As a result, he didn't have time to do anything fun. He often lamented this, missing when he was a child and would run around Masyaf with Altaïr and Kadar, but Malik knew that he had obligations now, and he needed to be responsible for them.

One morning in late June, just as the dawn had broken over the mountains surrounding Masyaf, Malik awoke in the bedroom he shared with Kadar feeling like he was forgetting something important. He rolled over in his bed blearily, looking over at Kadar's bed, to find it empty and unmade.

This did not surprise him. Lately his little brother had been getting up early to watch Altaïr train, who seemed to be getting up earlier and earlier each day to do so, hoping to learn some new techniques.

Malik sat back in his bed, rubbing his eyes with a fist, and running his other hand through his hair, making a mental note to reprimand Kadar for not making his bed. He sat up slowly and yawned hugely, stretching his arms into the air, before swinging his legs out of bed and clothing himself in his Novice gray uniform. However, as he got ready for the day, there was still that nagging thought in the back of his mind that he was forgetting something.

Malik left the room once he was ready, heading towards the courtyard where he usually found Altaïr practicing in the the ring and Kadar on the outside edge, watching him attentively, to collect the two of them for breakfast. However, when Malik exited the fortress, he found the courtyard empty accept for his master, Labib, who seemed to be preparing for the day's lesson by making sure he had the proper medical supplies for whatever he had planned.

"Master, have you seen my brother?" Malik asked Labib.

Labib looked up vaguely, the sleep still evident in his eyes. "Ah, yes, Malik. I have seen him. He headed down to the village with Altaïr about ten minutes ago." he said, turning back towards his little box of medical supplies.

Malik scowled and found himself gritting his teeth. "May I have permission to-"

"Yes, yes." Labib said, sounding amused, "And you may want to remind Altaïr that he is to ask permission for such things as well." he added.

"Altaïr thinks himself above the rules, sometimes." Malik said stiffly, nodding his thanks.

He walked down to the village, his fists clenching and unclenching as he walked. He would have to remind Altaïr that until they became full members of the order he would have to ask to leave the fortress, and Malik would have to tell Kadar that he was not to go anywhere without him knowing where he was and that Altaïr can be a bad influence, and he should be more careful around him.

Malik wandered around the village looking for his brother and Altaïr, steadily becoming angrier and angrier, until he saw Kadar's back as the eleven year old looked at the small, useless baubles that a merchant was selling. Malik stomped up to him and grabbed his shoulder, whipping him around so that he was facing him. Guilt and horror flared in Kadar's blue eyes as he looked up at his brother.

"What in the name of _Allah_ do you think you're doing!?" Malik hissed, his tone slow and deadly.

"I- um- we-" Kadar squeaked, "Altaïr said-"

"You do not _listen_ to Altaïr, you listen to me," Malik growled. "And I told you not to go to the village without me, and especially without permission."

Malik paused, looking into Kadar's wide, guilty eyes. Malik closed his own and grimaced, inhaling deeply and releasing it with a sigh. He weakened his grip on Kadar's shoulders.

"Do you have any idea how _worried_ I was?" Malik admonished.

"I'm sorry Malik." said Kadar sincerely.

Malik sighed and straightened, releasing Kadar. He cast a glance around the market, suddenly realizing what was missing. Malik scowled and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at Kadar again with one eyebrow raised.

"Where is Altaïr?" he asked.

"He ran back to Masyaf to, uh," Kadar suddenly looked nervous. "To drop something off." he finished somewhat lamely.

Malik's scowl deepened and he took Kadar's hand, practically dragging him back to Masyaf with him, ignoring his growling stomach. They met his Novice group with Labib at the main gate. Altaïr was already there, looking at him curiously from behind their master. Malik glared at him.

"I see you found him." Labib mused.

"Go find your Novice class, Kadar." grumbled Malik.

"Try not to be late anymore." said Labib as Malik sidled past him and took his place next to Altaïr. Kadar ran past then back to the main fortress.

Once Kadar was out of sight, Malik turned swiftly and kicked Altaïr hard in the shins. Altaïr yelped in surprise and shock as he immediately shoved Malik, who stumbled back a couple of feet, fuming.

"What was that for!?" Altaïr yelled angrily.

"Why did you lure Kadar down to the village like that!?" Malik shouted, "And you left him there, all alone! He could have been hurt!"

"Save it, boys," Labib advised them loudly, cutting Altaïr off. Labib often tired of the two boys' bickering. "Now's not the time."

"What are we doing today, master?" Rauf asked quickly, changing the subject before Malik and Altaïr could start fighting again.

"We're going to practice roof jumping today." said Labib, pleased for the change of subject as he started walking down the path, "We're going to jump from rooftop to rooftop around the village five times. Whoever gets back first is the winner, and no cheating. That building there," he pointed to a building near by. "is the start. Get ready."

The boys got into position, lining up shoulder by shoulder. Malik, who was on the very end, had Altaïr to his left. He was staring determinedly forward, trying to ignore Altaïr completely.

"Go!" Labib yelled.

They took off, running to the wall of the building that their master had pointed out before scaling it and reaching the roof. They jumped from roof to roof, Altaïr taking an early lead with Malik not far behind him. After about the second lap, Altaïr slowed down a bit and kept pace with Malik, who continued to try to ignore him, mainly focusing on getting to the next roof.

"I don't see why you're so upset." said Altaïr as they began their third lap.

"Yeah, of course you don't." Malik replied snidely, before he could stop himself.

"Why are you so angry?" Altaïr pressed.

"You just _randomly_ took my little brother down to the village without permission!" Malik exploded.

"It wasn't random." he said defensively.

"Not only that, but you _left_ him down there _alone _when you wandered off to Masyaf to do Allah knows what-" Malik went on, ignoring him.

"Kadar wanted to stay down there longer to look around and see if he could get something better." said Altaïr as they started their fourth lap.

"Better!? Better than what?" Malik said harshly.

The two ran in silence for a minute or so. As they ran, Malik noticed that one of the other Novices had kicked a pot to the edge of the building. Taking care to avoid it, they leaped to the next building before Malik took up his rant again, and Altaïr did not respond, letting him fume in peace.

"Why did you go down there, anyways?" Malik snapped eventually, part way through their fifth lap.

Altaïr looked genuinely surprised at that. "You... don't know?"

Malik glared at him, annoyed. "Would I have asked if I did?"

Altaïr's lips curled into an amused smirk. "I thought that Kadar would have given it away for sure."

Malik turned to glare at Altaïr and ask what he was talking about, when his foot landed on the dislodged pot from earlier. Malik jerked forward, as the pot rolled back, launching him off of the roof. Malik, who had not yet fully been taught how to fall in a way to avoid injury, yelled as he fell, reflexively throwing his arms forward.

When he hit the ground, there was a sickening crack-crunching sound, and a horrible pain exploded from Malik's right wrist. He sat up on the ground, swearing loudly as stars danced in his vision. Malik clutched his broken wrist, gritting his teeth, his entire right arm throbbing with pain, his wrist the epicenter.

Once the pain had dulled to a vague numbness, Malik staggered to his feet, still holding his wrist gingerly, and hobbled over to where Labib and Altaïr were standing, the latter of which was the only one of the pair who looked remotely worried.

"Malik! Are you okay?" Altaïr asked at his approach.

"Of course not, you asshole." Malik spat, furious, "I just fell off a fucking roof!"

"Broken wrist?" asked Labib, appraising him.

Malik nodded, wincing from pain. Labib rifled around in his box of medical supplies and sat Malik down while he made a splint for him before sending him off, back to Masyaf, where he got proper medical attention in the infirmary, where he was met with a kindly-faced medic who gently tended to him.

"You're lucky the break wasn't worse. If it was, we probably would have had to cut off your hand." the medic informed him as he tended to Malik's injuries.

He proceeded to tell him that if he didn't move his wrist a lot he would make a full recovery, and that meant no training until then. After his injuries had been tended to the medic sent Malik back to the bedroom he shared with Kadar, where he stomped around grousing out loud angrily to himself.

This went on for about an hour until there was a sharp rap on his door. Malik did not answer, but the door boldly opened anyways and Altaïr sidled in, his hands behind his back.

"What?" Malik snapped.

Altaïr did not say anything, but from behind him Kadar rushed out and threw his arms around Malik's waist. Malik winced, for the physical contact was rough on his injuries. Kadar, noticing this, stepped back.

"Big brother! Are you okay!?" Kadar asked, a note of desperation in his voice.

"Yes." said Malik, who saw no reason to trouble anyone, especially his little brother, with his woes.

"I'm sorry." Altair muttered, "If I hadn't distracted you-"

"You hold no guilt." Malik said flatly, turning away and crossing his arms with another wince.

The three of them stood in silence for a moment or so until Kadar said timidly from behind him, "Happy birthday, brother."

Malik's mouth fell open, and he whipped around to gape at Altaïr and Kadar. "What?"

"Happy birthday." Kadar repeated, his eyebrows still drawn together in worry.

Malik couldn't believe it; he totally forgot that it was his birthday. He, of course, felt incredibly foolish now that it was pointed out. He felt rather ridiculous for not remembering, after all, he wasn't _that_ old. After all, he was only... Well, fourteen now. The best Malik could figure was that he had been so focused on caring for Kadar that he had forgotten all about it.

"Th- thank you." Malik stammered.

Altaïr, surprising both Al-Sayf brothers, broke into a wide grin; Malik honestly couldn't remember the last time he did that. Altaïr, his hands still behind his back, looked at Malik, amused.

"Judging by your face you didn't remember." he said lightheartedly.

"I didn't." Malik admitted, almost sheepishly.

Wordlessly, Altaïr brought his hands out from behind his hands out from behind his back, revealing something small that was wrapped in cloth. He handed it to Malik, who gently took it and unwrapped it to reveal a small cinnamon date cake about the size of his fist.

Malik stared in surprise at the little treat, mixed emotions racing through his mind. When his parents had been alive, his father would always bring him some new, interesting text, whether it be a book or a scroll, from the places he visited on his missions. His mother would always find a creative new recipe for something and make it for him. Kadar's birthdays were similar, accept that their father would bring him a new toy, or some random bauble, rather than something to read.

"Kadar wanted to get you something, and so he woke me up early to go to the village to have this made." Altaïr explained as Malik stared at the dessert, touched that his brother and his friend had remembered.

"Do you like it?" Kadar asked nervously, shifting his feet.

Malik put the cake down on the table and pulled his little brother close into a one armed hug, still being mindful of his broken wrist, ruffling Kadar's hair affectionately.

"Of course, Kadar." said Malik, "Thank you so much."

Over Kadar's head, Malik nodded his thanks to Altaïr, who was still smiling, but there was a touch of sadness in his golden eyes.

Malik frowned. He remembered that in a couple of weeks, he too would be turning fourteen, and that he did not have any family to celebrate it with; hadn't in almost three years. Malik felt a pinch of guilt in his stomach, even though he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

Malik released his younger brother and rifled around in his dresser, drawing out his father's old knife, making sure that it was clean of blood, although he had no doubt that it would be. Not only did his father take very good care of his weapons, but in the weeks after his death, Kadar cleaned and polished his father's weapons repeatedly as a sort of coping mechanism.

Malik took the knife somewhat awkwardly with his left hand, all assassins were trained to be ambidextrous but Malik often found himself unintentionally favoring his right, and cut the cake into three, mostly even slices. He handed one to each of them, and they sat down, Malik next to Kadar on his bed and Altaïr on Kadar's.

The three ate their cake in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until Malik finished his last bite, reveling in the final bursts of flavor in his mouth. He leaned over and hugged Kadar close to him, catching the eleven year old by surprise.

"Again, thank you." Malik repeated, then added, "Both of you."

* * *

So, another chapter done. I would once again like to thank everyone who have been taking the time to review my work. I love getting feedback on my work, so that I can improve it if necessary. I would also like to remind everyone to tell me if you all want me to continue the story into Malik and Altair's adulthood, or just stop it at about age twenty-seven, as I had originally planned.

I would also like you all to know that my stupid laptop hasn't been working properly of late (damn thing isn't even quite three years old yet, and its screen has just been black ever since yesterday morning. Thus, I am using my mom's new computer. :( ), so I may be a little late with upcoming chapters. I just wanted you to know, but I will update whenever possible. Thank you for your patience.


	9. Chapter 9: Husam and the Shadow

**Age 15:**

The city was loud and cover crowded, and Malik did not like it one bit. As he moved throughout the over-crowded streets, trying to keep the back of the assassin he was shadowing within sight, he decided that he would like Jerusalem a lot more if there were about half as many people.

Noticing the Novice lagging behind him, the assassin turned around and grinned at Malik's obvious discomfort and irritation, pausing in the middle of the road, waiting for him to catch up.

Al Mualim had decided that Malik, Altaïr, and a couple of other Novices in their training group were ready to witness a real assassination. Last year they had visited Acre, Damascus, and Jerusalem, learning how each city functioned, how the Bureaus operated, and how to locate the things or people they needed throughout the cities. Altaïr's shadow mission was in Damascus, Rauf and Abbas were in Acre, and Malik was here, in Jerusalem. For the record, Malik's opinion of the city did not differ much from the first and second times he visited the city, but he didn't like the other cities more.

The assassin whom Malik was shadowing was called Husam al Din, who was only about five years older than Malik, and he had recently become an assassin himself. Husam was intelligent in his work, but he was a little too light-hearted, in Malik's opinion. Malik was sure that it would get him killed one day; it was sad, but true. Assassins needed to be hardened and strong, and if they didn't, and were too kind, they were made into easy targets. It made Malik worry for his little brother. He tried not to too much, but he couldn't help it.

Their mission, or rather Husam's mission, was to locate and eliminate a visiting Templar, who was posing as a nobleman from Western Europe. At least, that is what the information recovered so far had gleaned. They had also learned his schedule and the places he frequented. Husam spoke to Malik about a plan he was thinking of; ambushing the Templar while he practiced his fighting skills in an abandoned church in the Middle District.

All in all, however, Husam was a good teacher on how to behave and act on a mission. He gave Malik lots of helpful hints and tips on how to successfully preform and carry out a mission. Malik had the sneaking suspicion that Husam already had all the information he needed about the Templar, but he was just delaying to help Malik with his training more, for which he was grateful. It wasn't that he _needed_ the help, but he always appreciated the help.

"I _hate_ this city." Malik grumbled aloud when he had caught up to Husam, "I don't know how these people stand it."

Husam laughed good-naturedly and slapped the Novice on his back before continuing to wade his way through the sea of people once more, Malik following closely behind him.

"You'll have to get used to it." the assassin said, looking at Malik from over his shoulder, still smiling, "You'll undoubtedly have to return to Jerusalem sooner or later. in fact, it's most likely you'll be returning here your your first real assassination. And Damascus isn't any better." he added.

"What about Acre?" Malik asked. Although they, Malik's Novice class, had visited each city the previous year, they didn't really have time to look around, or explore, or anything. All they did, pretty much, was go immediately to the Bureaus, learn how they were operated, and then help clean them.

"Acre is... interesting." Husam decided.

"That doesn't really answer my question." Malik pointed out, after a moment's pause.

"No, I suppose it didn't." Husam agreed with a laugh, "But don't worry, you'll visit Acre soon enough, once you're a full member of the order, and you'll see what I mean."

Malik crossed his arms over his chest and grunted in response.

It wasn't long before the two of them had located an Informant, who told the two that he needed to collect some flags about the city, but he couldn't because he had hurt his ankle. As the Informant and Husam spoke to one another, Malik noted that the former shifted his weight from leg to leg a couple of times. The Novice stared at the Informer reproachfully, until Husan suggested that Malik collect the flags.

"For practice." he said simply, an encouraging smile on his face.

Once the teen had collected all eighteen flags in about a minute and a half, he shoved them into the Informant's arms.

"_Lazy bastard._" Malik thought savagely, before he could stop himself.

"Let's see... Your target is the Templar in disguise, right?" said the Informant thoughtfully, "I have tailed him for a couple of days, and over heard a conversation in which he spoke of leaving Jerusalem in exactly four days. I hope that you find this information useful."

Husam nodded his thanks before he and Malik ran into an alleyway and climbed a latter to reach the roof of a building. The two walked across the homes and businesses of the people of Jerusalem, skirting around guards, when they saw them. Eventually, Malik noticed that they were heading back towards the Bureau.

"I believe we are ready to preform the assassination." said Husam, "Unless you think you need to know more about how to successfully gather information on your target?"

"I think we're ready." said Malik, attempting to be solemn, despite the excitement bubbling in his stomach.

"I'm glad. Then, once he's dead, we can head back to Masyaf." Husam paused, before adding, "Are you planning on becoming a Master Assassin?"

"Of course." Malik admitted, "My friend, my little brother, and I are all going to be Master Assassins together." It may have sounded childish, but it was what the three had been planning since they knew what a Master Assassin was.

Malik frowned, suddenly remembering a conversation he and Altaïr had been going on about how he was going to be the greatest Master Assassin the world had ever seen, and he would cut Malik off every time he tried to speak. Eventually Malik got so irritated that he just grabbed his book and left. He didn't know what was up; Altaïr had been behaving like a real asshole the past few months.

Malik shook his head out of his thoughts when Husam said brightly, "I'm planning on becoming a Master Assassin too."

"Good luck." Malik said sincerely.

The two dropped into the Bureau, Malik not landing quite as gracefully as he would have liked, but he figured that he would get better with practice. Husam lead the way into the office area where the Rafiq was hunched over a book he was reading.

The Rafiq, a man of about thirty five, had black hair and hazel eyes. He looked up as they entered, and Malik could see smile crinkles around his eyes. His eyebrows raised at them, waiting for Husam to speak.

"Safety and peace, Dai Nibras." Husan said respectfully, a glint of humor in his eyes.

Nibras rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "Have you collected the information necessary for your mission?"

Malik was startled to hear a woman's voice call out from the back room, "Who is it, Nibras?" Malik figured that it was just the Rafiq's wife.

"It's Husam, Kalila." said the Rafiq, not taking his eyes from Husam.

"Hello, mother." Husam called from next to Malik, who looked at him in surprise as he suddenly realized how similar Husam and Nibras looked.

Honestly, Malik wasn't so sure why he was surprised. It was stupid to assume that all assassins were orphans, just because he and Kadar were, not to mention Altaïr, Abbas... Even his own father, and Altaïr's father, had been orphans. But now that he thought of it, he supposed that it was more likely than not that there would be some assassins who still had parents.

"Tell me what you have learned." said Nibras.

Husam took off, explaining what he knew of the Templar, and his plan to ambush him as he practiced fighting with his mace in the abandoned church. As Husam spoke, Nibras closed his eyes and nodded, taking in his plan.

"We will leave at dawn tomorrow and wait for him in the church." Husam concluded.

"It seems good enough. I wish you luck," the Rafiq proceeded to reach around under his desk for a feather before handing one to his son. Then Nibras' eyes fell on Malik, who stiffened. "This is your shadow?"

"Yes sir." Malik said politely.

Husam had let Malik wait on the roof of the Bureau when they first came to the city, at the Novice's request, as much as he wanted to look around inside, for he wanted to be sure to memorize the location of the Bureau and what was on all of the surrounding streets for future reference, when he came there on actual missions. Not only that, but he and the Rafiq had only interacted briefly when Malik and Husam returned to the Bureau for the night. Thus, that was Malik's first real meeting with Nibras.

Nibras studied him for a moment, reflecting back to when the Novices had visited his Bureau the year before. "Yes, I remember you. You were the one who answered all my questions correctly. How are you enjoying Jerusalem, boy?"

Malik bit back the urge to correct him, in that he wasn't a boy any longer. Instead, Malik shifted his feet and lied, "It's fine."

Seeming to sense that he wasn't telling the truth, the Rafiq smiled warmly at Malik. "Don't worry, it can be overwhelming at first, but it's not that bad once you get used to it. Besides, you'll only have to deal with it when you're on mission here."

Malik nodded in agreement, and Husam gripped his shoulder saying, "We aught to get some rest for tomorrow."

Husam started to steer Malik out of the room, but Nibras called them back.

"Oh, and one more thing."

"Yes, father?" Husam said.

"I posted an Informant near that church, in that sector of the city, near that church, and he has yet to return. If you see him, tell him to report back to the Bureau immediately."

"Will do." Husam said, mock saluting.

The next morning, they left at dawn as planned. The Templar usually came to the church around noon, but arriving that early gave the two time to figure out a good hiding place in the rafters, where Husam could air-assassinate his victim.

They found a stable support beam to crouch upon, not too far from a hole in the roof that they had planned to use as an exit, where they waited. In Malik's opinion, the waiting was one of the worst parts of an assassination, and not just because his legs were growing uncomfortably stiff. It was the boredom, mostly, and you have nothing to dwell upon other than everything that could go wrong in the mission. At least, however, Malik was much better at waiting and being patient than Altaïr. More than once in their training had he messed some sort of activity up because he was seemingly incapable of siting still for long periods of time.

As Malik and Husam sat crouched among the rafters, Malik couldn't help noticing that there was something different about the church, since the last times they had been in there. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, until his charcoal eyes rested on a misshapen heap of old sheets in the corner of the room, and he noticed that the air had the stale, but nevertheless present metallic tang of blood.

Malik nudged Husam and pointed at the heap. "What do you think it is?" the Novice asked in a hushed whisper.

Husam frowned. "I don't like the looks of this. Something seems... Wrong somehow."

"I feel the same way." Malik admitted, "What should we do?"

Husam hesitated, thinking over his options in his mind. "He should be here, soon, but... I'm going to go check it out. Whatever happens, do _not_ get involved. Promise me. I don't want you to get hurt for my sake."

Malik shrugged. "I promise."

Husam grabbed the beam with both of his hands, dangling there for a moment before dropping down and summersaulting at the landing. The Novice watched as he crept carefully over to the sheet he was going to investigate. With one fluid movement, Husam tore the sheet off of whatever was under it.

Immediately, the smell of blood intensified. Malik's eyes widened with horror as he and Husam took in the gory mess beneath it. They could tell that the body used to be human, and through the blood, they could identify the uniform robes of the missing Informant that Rafiq Nibras had mentioned. Malik's stomach lurched uncomfortably as the Novice tried not to vomit.

"Well, well." said a voice that was heavily accented in French.

Malik's eyes widened and his head jerked towards the entrance of the church, as Husam did the same. Their target strode boldly through the doors, his mace already drawn. Husam drew his sword into his right hand, and raised it to meet his opponent as the Templar rushed forward. The Templar aimed a blow at Husam's head, but the assassin blocked him, and attempted to jab his hidden blade into the Templar's chest. Malik watched their dance of death, mesmerized, mentally torn between his own moral compass of wanting to help his temporary teacher, and his promise to not interfere.

Eventually, the Templar's mace caught Husam on the backs of his legs, making him fall backwards. Taking the opportunity he was presented with, the Templar brought his mace down heavily on Husam's legs, breaking them with a loud, sickening crunch. Husam howled in pain, trying not to look at the gory mess of flesh and bone that used to be his legs. Through his pain, he made eye contact with Malik, who remained crouched on the beam, horror-stricken, about to jump off to aid his temporary mentor.

"No!" Husam shouted to the Novice, who froze where he crouched once more.

The Templar, who thought Husam was talking to him, guffawed cruelly, "There is no escape,_ Hashsashin_!"

"Run!" Husam screamed.

The Templar swung his mace and Malik cringed, closing his eyes so that he didn't have to see it make contact with Husam's skull, although it did not block out the nauseating cracking sound it made. Malik did not need to be told twice. He ran out of the hole in the roof through which they entered, heading blindly back to the Bureau, cursing himself for his cowardice and wondering how he was going to explain what had happened to Husam's parents, who waited for him back at the Bureau, eager for their son to tell his tale of success.

* * *

You may have noticed my use of the word "Hashashin." I am trying to incorporate as many accurate details from the actual hashashins as possible, for example the ceremony of when a Novice becomes a full member of the order, but more on that later. :)


	10. Chapter 10: First Kill

Now, it's been a while since I've read "The Secret Crusade," and I seem to recall that it was only several years after the fact that Altaïr told Abbas of his father's suicide. If I am incorrect about this, I'm changing it around a bit because I also remember that Altaïr became a full member of the order after the fight shared between the two and their punishment, and eleven or twelve is a little early to become a full member of the order.

Oh, and Altaïr, don't worry; it'll get easier. ;)

* * *

**Age 16:**

Five years previously, two days after Altaïr's own father's execution Ahmad Sofian came into Altaïr's bedroom, blaming himself for Umar lbn-La'Ahad's death, and slit his own throat after begging desperately for forgiveness. Eleven year old Altaïr had immediately gone to Al Mualim and told him what happened and the master proceeded to clean up the corpse and dispose of it, advising Altaïr to never tell Abbas, Ahmad's only child and remaining family member, what happened.

However, in a moment of weakness, in May of his seventeenth year, Altaïr told him. Abbas had not reacted at the time, but the very next day he attacked Altaïr in training, shouting to everyone that he was a liar. The two spent the rest of the month in solitary confinement, before being released. Abbas was sentenced to a whole year of additional training. However, Al Mualim tested Altaïr on various things he had learned throughout his training, everything from different languages to sword fighting forms.

On June thirteenth, three days before Malik's seventeenth birthday, Al Mualim called Altaïr into his office. The old man of the mountain paced behind his desk, his hands folded behind his back, while Altaïr stood on the other side of the desk, his spine ridged, his face passive.

"It is time for one of your final chances to show me that you are ready to become a full member of our order." Al Mualim said eventually, "If you complete this task by July tenth, you will become a full member of our order on that day."

Altaïr's heartbeat quickened in excitement. July tenth was his seventeenth birthday, and that was about a month away. The corners of Altaïr's mouth twitched, as if he were about to grin, but he did not allow himself to break into a full smile, for the sake of remaining stoic before his master. He could do it, it didn't matter what the task was. After all, he was one if the best.

"You are to travel to Damascus and inquire to the Bureau leader, Basir, about a man called Talaat. You are to find information on this man, and then end his life. Do you understand?"

Altaïr nodded, determined, a flame of excitement beginning to burn in his stomach. In training, he had learned how and where to strike on the human body using a corpse, and he had been made to practice taking a life on animals, usually on dogs or mountain goats, but he had yet to actually take a _human_ life. In spite of himself, a cold, determined grin crept up his face.

"Absolutely." said Altaïr.

Altaïr dropped into the Bureau of Damascus, remembering it's location from a trip to each of the Bureaus in the three major cities in the vicinity, Damascus, Jerusalem, and Acre, meeting the Rafiqs in charge of each one, and shadowing another assassin on one of his missions.

Altaïr stepped into the office area, suddenly feeling anxious, his eyes scanning about the room until he found a man facing away from him, painting a pot.

"Um, Basir?" he asked.

The man looked up at him, and Altaïr could see that he was not the Rafiq. Basir had been an older man, around his late forties with graying hair. The man behind the counter was younger, about twenty three, and he had black hair that was beginning to form a beard on his chin.

"I am Rahim." he said slowly, "Basir is my master, and he is out right now. Are you the Novice sent by Al Mualim?" he added, his tone brightening considerably.

Altaïr nodded. "My name is Altaïr."

Rahim broke into a wide grin. "Welcome to Damascus' Assassin Bureau, Altaïr."

"What can you tell me of the man called Talaat?" Altaïr asked, an unintentional note of impatience in his voice, as he moved further across the room so that he was opposite the man.

Rahim's enthusiasm did not waver in the slightest. "Ah, I am glad that Al Mualim chose him for you. He's been causing a bit of trouble, here, in Damascus.

"Now, as a reminder of how the Bureaus operate. You are to learn everything you can about your target. Normally, an assassin would speak to Informants about the city, but as this is your first human target, you are to collect the information yourself. Once you have figured out all you need to know, return here, and either my master or I will give you a feather. You are to bring it back here and use that feather as proof of your successful kill."

"Where do I start?" Altaïr said.

"I would recommend beginning your search at the Souk al-Silaah, in the Poor District." he said, rummaging around in his counter and drawing out a map of Damascus, pointing out the location of which he spoke, "Unfortunately, I cannot give you any other information than this. You'll have to find him on your own from there."

Altaïr nodded his thanks and headed back to the open area under the wooden lattice, just as a man, whom Altaïr recognized as Basir, dropped down from the roof. Altaïr paused, and the two momentarily made eye contact.

"Safety and peace, Novice." said Basir, moving past him into the office area. As Altaïr climbed out of the Bureau, he could hear the Rafiq discussing the teen's arrival with his apprentice.

Altaïr jumped from rooftop to rooftop, heading for the Souk al-Silaah. He took note that there were guards at the entrances of the souk, so he found a hole in the roof, and dropped down onto a platform from there, and then into the crowded bazaar. He easily melted into the crowd, eyes and ears open for any hint of his target.

It wasn't too long until he found a man conversing with a merchant called Talaat. Altaïr eavesdropped from a near by bench as the man and his target discussed an order of rugs and cloth that he had. Once the two men had finished discussing the order, Talaat sat back behind the counter on his stall, his hazel eyes jumping from person to person on the street, as if determined to memorize each person. However, he did not seem to take any notice of Altaïr.

For the next five days, Altaïr watched the man, learning of his habits, his schedule, and the places he frequented. For a while he could not figure out why the agents of Damascus had sent a request to Al Mualim to have this man be killed, for, in all aspects, he seemed to just be a normal merchant.

By the end of his first week, however, Altaïr his reason for being a target figured out; Talaat had been training himself to recognize the uniform of Informants, and would report them to the guard. This happened twice while Altaïr was gathering information on the man; the first Informant had caught wind of what Talaat was doing, and gathered his family and left Damascus before he could get caught. The second wasn't so lucky. The second Informant Talaat reported had resisted arrest and as a result was shot down by rooftop archers. He would spend the money he got from doing this at brothels, despite having a wife.

On Altaïr's eleventh day in Damascus, he deemed that he was ready to strike. Normally the information gathering for such an easy target did not last that long, but Altaïr wanted to be thorough. This was his first _real_ mission, after all. He practically had his target's daily schedule memorized. He knew that around sunset he would walk back home alone, taking short, mostly disused alleyways to get back home faster. In fact, at that time of day, the only people in those alleyways besides Talaat and Altaïr were some drunks, who were too intoxicated to be aware of anything other than their alcohol addled brains.

Altaïr dropped into the Bureau around noon to find Basir behind the counter this time.

"Safety and peace, Novice Altaïr." he said. Rahim must have told him about Altaïr, which was to be expected, for Altaïr had not returned to the Bureau since his first day there, other than to mutely eat a meal once a day before rushing out again. He would sleep in the rooftop gardens near his target's house, so that he could keep a close eye on him.

"I am ready to kill my target." Altaïr declared.

"Oh?" said Basir, "Would you care to enlighten me as to why you know this?"

Altaïr went off, explaining literally everything he had learned of his target, even the things that were unimportant, and further explaining his plan to ambush him as he walked home for the night. As he spoke, Basir scratched his chin thoughtfully, nodding here and there.

Once Altaïr had finished, Basir said, "Your plan seems solid enough. I give you leave to go."

Altaïr nodded his thanks before climbing out of the Bureau and heading back to the market. He drifted in and out of the crowds staying within ten feet of his target at all times. Eventually, as the day dragged on, the crowd thinned enough so that Altaïr had to take refuge on the ceiling support beams to stay hidden from his target as he packed up his stall for the last time.

As Talaat walked home, Altaïr followed him from the rooftops. The shadows from the buildings in the setting sun cast the streets in darkness, along with both of the men. About a block away from Talaat's house, Altaïr dropped down into the street behind his target. Talaat must have heard the rustle of fabric as Altaïr landed or felt the rush of air as he did so, because he whipped around and drew a short knife. Altaïr drew his sword.

"Well, well." Talaat mused, not sounding remotely frightened, "I figured that they would send one of you bastards after me eventually."

Altaïr leveled his sword and lunged. Talaat jumped aside and jabbed at the teen with his knife. Altaïr noticed that he moved and struck with such precision that he must have been trained as a guard before he became a merchant.

Blade clashed against blade as the two fought. Any who may have heard them fighting would have steered clear of the area, and the guards for whatever reason did not interfere either, for which Altaïr was grateful. It made his attack on Talaat a lot easier.

Eventually, after the sun had fully set, Talaat's blade caught on Altaïr's hood, tearing it off. Altaïr scowled at the man, aiming a slash at Talaat's side.

"Look at you." Talaat sneered, mockingly, "You're still just a child!"

"I am not a child!" Altaïr yelled, his voice cracking horribly at the last word.

Talaat laughed cruelly, which stopped abruptly. His eyes seemed to bug out of his head, and a trickle of blood spurted from his mouth. His eyes looked down at the handle of Altaïr's blade, which was against his stomach, its blade protruding out of his back on the other side. Talaat's eyes slid back up to Altaïr's golden ones, and his mouth formed a single word.

"_Why?_" Talaat whispered.

Altaïr put his free hand against Talaat's chest and pulled his sword out of the man. His target collapsed on the street, a large pool of blood forming around him, lapping at Altaïr's leather boots. Talaat's eyes were still wide open, but they were dull and glazed where as moments before they had been so full of life. His expression was frozen in that at the time of his face, leering, but with growing shock.

As Altaïr looked down at his first victim, he felt something he did not expect. He had been surrounded by death his whole life. Not only that, but he had been training to do this very thing for a very long time. He had seen corpses before, he had even seen a man take his own life in a very violent way when he was just eleven. He had gone as a shadow on other assassin's mission, to watch them on a murder. He had been prepared for almost every reaction after his very first human murder, but Altaïr had not been prepared for feeling ill.

Altaïr clapped his hand over his mouth, for fear that he would vomit all over Talaat's corpse. He tugged his hood back up, put his sword away, and ran the white feather in the blood before Altaïr ran around the corner and jumped into a cart of hay to sit for a while and clear his mind and calm his stomach.

Thoughts raced through his mind, and the world around him seemed to tilt and whirl. He needed to get under control. He needed to get used to murder. He would be doing this for the rest of his life, and he can't freak out about it every time. Besides, if he let how freaked out he was show, Al Mualim may delay his ceremony of becoming a full member of the order. It was best to just let it out now, and not let it show later.

Altaïr held the bloodied, once-white feather before his eyes, his right hand shaking horribly. He put his left back over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut as he heard a woman, Talaat's wife probably, call out for him near by.

"Talaaaaaat!" she called, "Talaaaa-"

The woman's voice broke out into a scream. Altaïr could hear the sobs of the woman from around the corner, along with her yelling, "_No!_" repeatedly. Then, most terrible of all, Altaïr heard the voice of a little girl, who couldn't have been more than four.

"Daddy! Daddy, _no!_ Daddy!" the child screamed.

Altaïr couldn't hold it in any longer, and vomited in the hay. He stayed there for a long time, listening to the crying of Talaat's family, the stench of his own sick starting to get to him. Eventually, Altaïr managed to regain his composure and slid fluidly out of the hay. He crushed the feather in his hand as he ran through the streets back towards the Bureau.

Altaïr was lucky enough to find Rafiq Basir still awake. He was painting complicated designs on a pot by light of an oil lamp when the teen entered. Wordlessly, Altaïr presented the Rafiq with the bloody feather as he walked through the doorway to the office area.

"Excellent." said Basir, pulling out his log book along with a pot of ink and a quill, "Tell me what happened."

"I- I followed Talaat home from his stall at the Souk al-Silaah at sunset." Altaïr began, stifling the quiver in his voice, "I ambushed him, and we... fought. Then I killed him."

The Rafiq studied Altaïr. "Is that all?"

"Yes." said the Novice.

"And are you... okay?" Basir added.

Altaïr stiffened. "I am not injured." he said.

"I can see that, but I did not mean physically." said Basir dryly.

"I'm fine." Altaïr insisted stubbornly.

Basir finished recording the success of Altaïr's mission in the book, muttering, "If you say so." After a pause, he added, "Just so you know, it is perfectly natural to feel sickened or scared after your first murder."

Altaïr stood stiffly a couple feet away from the Dai, waiting to be dismissed, as he set the book aside for the ink to dry and turned back towards the pot he was painting. Through a closed mouth, Altaïr yawned, suddenly taking notice of how tired he was. From behind the desk, the Rafiq smirked.

"Get some sleep." he ordered, without looking up, "You will begin your journey back to Masyaf in the morning."


	11. Chapter 11: Jealousy

**Age 17:**

Malik was in alone, in his room. He was supposed to be studying, but he found that he couldn't focus. He subconsciously tugged on his Novice gray hood angrily, fury seeming to roll off of him in waves.

"This isn't fair!" Malik hissed out loud, slamming his fists against the table, making the objects on it rattle, "I'm older than he is, and we were made Novices at the same time! _This isn't fair!_"

Malik sat there for several minutes, fuming silently to himself, his fists curled tightly against the table to keep them from shaking in his anger, clenched hard enough that his knuckles were turning white. He took several deep breaths while he tried to calm himself.

He had scared Kadar out of the room, somewhat unintentionally. When he had found out, he had flown into a rage, throwing their meager possessions against the walls of the room. Kadar had scurried out of the room, leaving Malik to vent, and had not returned since. He did not particularly care, for he was happy to be alone. Malik figured that he would just be at the entrance of the fortress, waiting eagerly for the nine ex-novices, the chanters, and Al Mualim to return.

The ceremony of when a Novice becomes a full member of the order takes place in a very secluded place near Masyaf. The ten Novices would stand in a circle, all facing the middle. Al Mualim would walk around them in his ceremonial green robes, while the chanters stood in a wider circle around them, with their backs to the Novices. The chanters would begin their incantation as the Grand Master walked around the circle of the initiates. All at once the chanters would cease, and Al Mualim would plunge a dagger into the nearest initiate. The rest would be given their hidden blades, the choice to amputate their left ring finger, and would be welcomed as full members of the order.

Many assassins believe that Al Mualim signals the chanters when he is closest to the weakest initiate there, but no one can prove or disprove otherwise.

Without warning, the door swung open. Malik looked up to see a white-robed figure stride confidently into his room, accompanied by the faint smell of burned flesh, making Malik's nose wrinkle in disgust. His hood was up so that Malik could only see the bottom of his nose and his mouth, which was upturned in a haughty smirk.

"Congratulations." Malik spat bitterly, suddenly feeling very self-conscious in his gray robes.

"Thank you." said Altaïr, still with that arrogant half smile on his face.

Malik appraised him skeptically, his charcoal eyes running up and down the assassin's body, his eyes resting on his left hand where his new hidden blade gleamed, and the place where his ring finger had once been was bandaged where he had cut it off and burned the wound closed with a hot fire poker.

"I see you decided to amputate your finger." Malik observed disdainfully. For some reason, this did not surprise him.

"Yes." Altaïr agreed, drawing himself up proudly, flexing his remaining fingers and allowing his new hidden blade to snap out, "It's kinda weird, because it feels like it's still there. Are you going to when you become a full assassin?" He put emphasis in the word "you," making Malik's fists clench again, so hard his fingernails dig painfully into the palms of his hands.

"No, I will not." Malik snapped curtly, "I have no interest in mutilating myself."

Honesty, he _had_ been planning to cut of his ring finger as a display of his dedication to their order, but there was no way he was going to do it now. He didn't want to appear as a liar, and even if he wasn't worried about that he wouldn't anyways out of a combination of spite and stubbornness. He would have to make sure that Kadar didn't either.

The two teens held each other in an icy silence for a couple moments. Altaïr had moved so that his face was angled in a way that Malik couldn't quite see his eyes, but he could see a small golden glint to indicate where they were. Altaïr crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight over to one leg.

"What's your problem?" Altaïr said suddenly, tugging off his hood with one hand to inspect the person before him.

"What do you mean?" Malik asked coldly, holding his gaze.

"_Clearly_ something is bothering you." Altaïr snapped.

"What makes you say that?" Malik said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "It's not like I have anything to be remotely angry about."

"Oh, really?" Altaïr snarled, "Just spit it out already!"

Malik glared at Altaïr, trying to keep in mind that it was unusual, although not unheard of, to be made an assassin at that age. Most people become assassins when they were about twenty to twenty three. Still, at the risk of sounding childish, it wasn't fair. Malik was older than Altaïr and just as good in their studies, even better in some areas.

"Do you have anything important to say to me, or are you just here to gloat?" Malik hissed scathingly.

Altaïr momentarily looked stunned. His eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and his mouth thinned into a line. Altaïr blinked several times before his face slid back into its usual expressionless appearance.

"Fine." he said coldly, pulling his hood back up and crossing his arms over his chest, "_Fine._"

Altaïr turned and stalked out of the room, leaving Malik alone once more. Malik shouted in fury and grabbed the text he had been studying before and threw it, hard, against the wall. The book hit the stone with a _slam!_ before it slid to the floor and landed with a slight plop, open, on the ground, scattering Malik's notes all over the floor.

Malik's fists clenched and uncle chef as he stood in the middle of the mess for a moment, chest heaving and his shoulders rolled forward, before grimacing and taking a deep breath through his nose. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed out the breath through his mouth and crouched down to clean up the mess he had made.

* * *

I'm sorry for such a short chapter, but it's an important one.

So, I did my research on what the original Hashashins did for the ceremony where Novices (yes, that is what they were called, and one of the highest ranks achievable, interestingly, was called Master Assassin) became full members of the order, and I got as accurate as possible, here, in my writing. The Master of the order actually did wear green robes, all the initiates would stand in a circle with his back to him, and when the chanters stopped chanting, the old man of the mountain would plunge a dagger into the nearest Novice, killing him instantly. Honestly, it seemed a bit wasteful, spending so many years of time and resources on a Novice, just to have him be killed, to me, but whatever. I didn't make up the rules. (In my research, I also discovered that Ubisoft is accurate in several other ways, too. For example, not only are "Novice" and "Master Assassin" actual ranks, but so was Rafiq. The assassins also wore white robes with red sashes, and the Novices wore gray.)

I also wanted a reason for Altair to have his ring finger cut off at the beginning of the game in Solomon's Temple, and have Malik and Kadar still with their fingers, so I made it optional to cut off your finger. I figured that it was the best option.

Also, I'd like to apologize to Malik for this chapter, because he's quite right, it isn't fair. I originally had them become assassins together, the chapter being in Altair's point of view, and Al Mualim killing the initiate standing next to him, with Malik on his other side, but I remembered in the game when Altair visited Jerusalem for the last time and apologized to Malik, Malik mentioned that he was jealous of Altair, and I figured that had to start somewhere. Don't worry, though, Malik, because your time will come. :)

For more information on the original Hashashins, here's one of my sources; doc/16623931/Assassin-The-Deadly-Art-Of-The-Cult-Of-The-Assassins#fullscreen


	12. Chapter 12: Lonely Life

**Age 18:**

Altaïr leaped across the rooftops of Jerusalem, heading for the bazaar where one of the Informers suggested he eavesdrop and search for information on his target. Although he was doubtful, it was better than nothing. He found his target a little difficult to acquire information on, but this didn't bother him; as long as his mission was completed.

He strode into the market place, his eyes quickly coming to rest on a bench that was partially hidden between two stalls. Perfect. He sat down between the two people on the bench, the man on his left dozing lightly, the woman on his right so wrapped in veils that Altaïr didn't know what she was doing. The young assassin's eyes swept around the area and his ears listened to the cheerful babble of the people around him, searching for anything that could be of any use to him.

Eventually a young man about his age caught Altaïr's eyes. He was fidgeting nervously near by, his hands held behind his back. Altaïr frowned, staring at him. Why was he so nervous? Was he planning to do something?

The woman sitting next to Altaïr seemed to notice him too. Her hands reached up and adjusted her veil, revealing two large, brown eyes, and warm cheeks. She stood up abruptly, and busied herself with organizing some apples at the fruit stall across from the bench in an almost too inconspicuous manner.

As Altaïr watched, the man shuffled forward towards the woman, his hands still held behind his back. The assassin watched them, interested. What are they doing?

"Um, Aludra?" the man asked timidly.

The woman turned, her eyes flashing false surprise. From beneath her veil, Altaïr could tell that she was smiling. "Oh, hello, Dirar." she said brightly, "What brings you here today?"

Still fidgeting with whatever he hand behind his back, Dirar said, "I wanted to see you."

"Oh!" Aludra said, sounding happy, "It's good to see you. How is your father?"

"Still a bit ill, I'm afraid." Dirar said, his expression darkening, before looking up to make eye contact with Aludra again, his cheeks reddening.

"I'm sorry to hear that." she said sympathetically. Her right arm moved as if to place her hand on his shoulder to comfort him, but it fell at her side, as she must have remembered to keep her place, as they were in public.

"It's okay." said Dirar, before stuttering, "Um, I brought you these."

From behind his back, Dirar brought out a large bouquet of white jasmine flowers. From Aludra's body language, Altaïr could tell that she was as embarrassed and nervous as Dirar as she took the flowers from the man's trembling hands. She inhaled them deeply, and smiled from beneath her veil again.

"Thank you so much." she said sincerely, "How did you know that jasmine was my favorite?"

"I guessed." Dirar admitted shyly, twisting the toe of his boot into the dirt and staring at it determinedly as he did so.

"Thank you." Aludra said again, "I love them."

"I-I'll be back with another gift tomorrow!" blurted Dirar anxiously, looking Aludra in the eye again.

"That's very sweet of you." she said.

"Um, I'll see you tomorrow?" he said.

"Absolutely." Aludra agreed.

Dirar turned away and waded back into the crowd, a slight spring in his step, looking much happier than he had before, as Aludra went into her stall, momentarily out of sight, and returning with a vase in which she put her new bouquet of jasmine and set it upon the counter.

Altaïr looked away, mixed emotions swirling in his mind. He would never get to do that. He wouldn't have a normal life, never have and never would. He would never have a life that would be perceived as a normal one. He would never court a woman, or get married, have children, or fall in love.

Of course, there was no specific rule put in place preventing the assassins from marriage and having children, Altaïr himself being the product of one such union, but Altaïr had already decided a long time ago that he wouldn't. The life of an assassin was dangerous, and there was always the possibility that he would die on mission, or get caught by the enemies, and leave his wife and children alone, much like his father did to him so many years ago. He couldn't do that to his family, as much as he wanted one. No one should experience what he felt seven years ago.

Altaïr stood up from the bench, deciding that he wouldn't get any useful information from that part of the market, a heavy feeling of accepted loneliness settling on his shoulders as he went.

* * *

Once again, I am trying to plan a few chapters ahead, so I'm already trying to decide what I want to do for age twenty six. Obviously that is the age they are in the game, and I already know that I want it to have something to do with the events of Solomon's Temple. I have two ideas in mind for this, the first being Al Mualim calling them to his office and telling them of the mission, the other being not too long after the amputation of Malik's arm. Just tell me what you would rather read, and that's the one I'll publish. :)


	13. Chapter 13: Altaïr's Shadow

**Age 19:**

Malik paced back and forth before the desk in the library of Masyaf. He had his hands folded behind his back, and he stared at the floor as he walked, clearly deep in thought. Rauf, who was sitting at the desk with an open book before him, looked up at him in mild amusement and irritation at the distraction.

"He'll be_ fine_, Malik." said Rauf tiredly.

Malik stopped his pacing and looked at the other assassin, his eyebrows drawn together in worry. "But what if he's not?"

"He will be." Rauf insisted, "He's in good hands."

"I'm not so sure." Malik muttered.

"Relax, brother." chided Rauf, "It's just a shadow mission, and those hardly ever go wrong."

"Mine did!" Malik snapped.

Rauf nodded. "But you have to admit that that was unusual. Don't worry so much, your little brother will be fine."

"Acre is dangerous, and Altaïr isn't exactly careful!" Malik pointed out angrily.

"I will not argue with you, but Kadar will be okay." said Rauf simply, turning back to his book.

"How do_ you_ know?" Malik hissed spitefully.

"Because I choose to believe it so." Rauf said without looking up, "You just wait. Altaïr and Kadar will be back later this afternoon, and they'll be fine."

"But what if they're not?" Malik exploded, taking up his pacing again, "What if something went wrong, and no one was there to help them, or- or-"

Malik grimaced, a thousand different ways everything could go wrong flashing through his mind. He pictured Kadar and Altaïr beaten, captured, tortured, stabbed, beheaded, bleeding out, mutilated...

This went on for about another ten minutes until Rauf suggested, "Why don't you go down to the village to meet them, if you're so worried?"

Malik came to a halt once more, suddenly realizing that he was probably irritating his fellow assassin. "Sorry," he muttered. "Good idea."

He headed down to the village of Masyaf, sitting down on the edge of the well in font of the main gate with a book in his hands that he wasn't really interested in. Instead, he just stared anxiously down the road for about another four hours until he saw two figures riding horses. Malik sighed in relief, and strode out to the stables as Altaïr and Kadar approached and dismounted.

Malik immediately rushed to Kadar's side, grabbing him and appraising him for any injuries. Kadar's blue eyes momentarily widened in surprise until a grin broke out across his face. Out of the corner of his eyes, Malik could see Altaïr roll his own and cross his arms over his chest patiently.

"Good to see you too, brother." Kadar chirped cheerfully.

"What happened? Were you hurt?" Malik demanded.

"Everything's fine, Malik." Altaïr said, a note of irritation in his voice, "Calm down."

"It was great!" Kadar exclaimed, "Altaïr was a great teacher! I learned so much from him!"

"Is that all?" Malik asked, straightening and folding his arms over his chest, noticing with a jolt that Kadar was almost his height.

"It was fantastic!" Kadar said before turning towards Altaïr and adding, "Thank you so much. Maybe I can come with you on more missions?" he added hopefully.

"That is up to the Master." Altaïr said dully, "I must go report to him."

Malik stared at him suspiciously as he abruptly turned and headed up the hill to Masyaf without a second glance backwards towards the Al-Sayf brothers. Malik scowled at his retreating back before turning back towards Kadar.

"Why don't you head back to our room?" Malik suggested, "I'll join you in a moment or so. There's something I need to check."

"Whatever you say, brother." Kadar said happily.

Kadar started up the path, a short distance behind Altaïr, and Malik scrambled up onto a roof near by. He hopped from roof to roof, keeping Altaïr in sight as he went, eventually dropping down onto the path behind the assassin without him noticing. Malik followed Altaïr through Masyaf silently as he made his way to Al Mualim's office.

Altaïr knocked on the door, and Al Mualim's voice called from within, beckoning him inside. Luckily, as Altaïr entered, he left the door open so that Malik could hear their conversation easier. He pressed himself against the wall next to the door frame.

"Safety an peace, Master." Altaïr said.

"Safety and peace." Al Mualim replied, "I trust your mission was a success?"

"Of course." Altaïr sneered, "Would you expect anything less?"

"Good, good." said the Master, "And your shadow? The younger Al-Sayf brother?"

"He got in my way on the Informer missions a couple of times," Altaïr admitted. "However, he was eager and willing to learn." he added.

"Anything else?" Al Mualim said. Malik could hear the old Nan's footsteps as he paced back and forth.

"Nothing I can think of." said Altaïr.

"And where is he now?" Al Mualim asked.

"I left him over by the stables." said Altaïr, a note of distain in his voice, "Malik's probably fussing over him right now."

Malik scowled as Al Mualim responded to Altaïr, sounding amused, "Oh, is that so?"

"Yeah." said Altaïr.

"Anything else I should know about?"

"He was a bit squeamish when I actually took my target's life."

"I see." Al Mualim said, before raising his voice, "Is this true, Malik?"

Malik froze. _How could he have known? How did he know I was here?_

"Come on out, Malik. I know you're there." said Al Mualim blatantly.

Malik swore and shuffled into view, standing in the doorway. He took a sharp stab of pleasure to see the look of shock and surprise on Altaïr's face. Al Mualim, as Malik expected, looked somewhat amused.

"Safety and peace, Master." Malik said respectfully, feeling mortified.

"What are you doing?" Altaïr demanded.

"Your eavesdropping has improved since you were last tested." Al Mualim said approvingly.

"Thank you, Master." said Malik lowly.

"So, is it true what Altaïr said?" Al Mualim continued.

Malik paused. "What do you mean?"

"That your younger brother is squeamish about death." Al Mualim said.

"I- I wasn't there, so I wouldn't know." Malik pointed out, "But I wouldn't be surprised. I remember how upset he was when he had to kill some cats for training, one day."

Al Mualim stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Yes, I got a similar report from his teacher."

"He is still an innocent in many ways, Master." said Malik.

Al Mualim nodded, and then nodded again. "Vary well. You are both dismissed."

Altaïr and Malik nodded and exited the room. As they walked back down the hall, Altaïr punched Malik on the shoulder. Malik staggered a little bit, but made the decision to ignore him, figuring that it was for eavesdropping on his conversation with the Master. Malik rolled his eyes, and the two walked down the hall together.

* * *

Now, I don't know who started the thing where Kadar was really sweet and innocent, but whatever. Headcanon accepted.

Note: Sorry about all the glitches. I'm not sure _why _that happens, as it seems to happen at random, so I cannot do anything to stop it. In any case, thank you for letting me know.


	14. Chapter 14: Eagle Vision

**Age 20:**

The first time Altaïr used Eagle Vision was when he was fifteen. He had been talking to Malik after their first shadow mission, when his vision suddenly turned dark, accept for Malik, who was sitting before him, who had turned bright blue.

Altaïr had panicked and mumbled a quick, feeble apology before running off. He had sat in his room, freaked out, until it faded away. It had happened on and off over the years, whether he was at Masyaf or elsewhere, and eventually Altaïr dubbed it "Eagle Vision." He didn't tell anyone about it, for fear of the unknown and the thought of being mad.

It was times like these that Altaïr would practice turning it on and off. By now he could do it almost at will. He sat perched on a wooden beam on a tower, overlooking the village. Two other beams stretched out to his left, each with a pile of hay beneath it. As Altaïr surveyed the village, his legs dangling into nothingness, he willed his Eagle Vision to come on.

In the village below, the tiny dots of blue, gray, and white that were people bustled about on their daily business. Altaïr's golden eyes swept around, the various piles of hay both below and in the village glowing a faint golden color. Altaïr held his left hand up to his face, shining blue, a gap where his ring finger used to be.

Suddenly, feeling a prickle on the back of his neck, Altaïr whipped around to see a figure shining in blue with his arms crossed over his chest. Altaïr raised an eyebrow at him, concentrating and switching his Eagle Vision off.

"What are you doing?" Malik asked, the blue remains of the Eagle Vision around him hovering for a moment before fading away.

"Practicing." Altaïr said shortly.

"Practicing?" Malik asked disbelievingly, "Practicing what?"

"Nothing." said Altaïr. Malik waited, and Altaïr continued, "I won't bother to try and explain it to you. You won't get it."

Malik paused, and, looking at him, Altaïr could tell that he was actually curious. "Try me."

Altaïr hesitated. "It's just something I can do. I can... sort of just tell what someone's attitude is like, if that makes any sense."

"No, it doesn't." said Malik gruffly.

"People seem to... glow. It's hard to explain." said Altaïr, turning away from Malik to face the village again, "Enemies are red. Allies and friends are blue. Targets are yellow. People with information are white. Innocents are gray. Everyone has a color."

"And what's my color?" asked Malik, still sounding doubtful.

Altaïr paused, realizing that this was the first actual conversation they've had in ages. Altaïr wondered how that had happened. They hadn't had a fight or anything, but they sort of just... grew apart, as a lot of childhood friends ended up doing. It made Altaïr feel sort of sad, but it also made him want to try to rekindle their relationship.

"You're blue, of course." Altaïr said, looking back at him.

Malik raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth in a sort-of smirk. "So I'm a friend, then?"

"Why wouldn't you be?" said Altaïr, glancing back at Malik. One look on his face told Altaïr that Malik was thinking the same things as he.

Both men looked like they wanted to say something more, and Altaïr stood up at the edge of the wooden beam, facing Malik, who shuffled his feet awkwardly. Each seemed to be waiting for the other to speak.

Altaïr, unusually, decided to be the one to break the silence. "Did you come up here to tell me something?"

"Yes, actually." Malik admitted, "Al Mualim wanted to see you."

Altaïr nodded and turned back towards the edge of the beam and looked out. For what seemed like the first time since Malik's fourteenth birthday, his face broke into a wide grin as he spread his arms wide and allowed himself to fall. As always, there was that brief feeling of exhilarating freedom as the wind whipped off his hood and ran its fingers through his hair. He twisted his body and landed on his back in the hay.

He laid there for another moment longer before standing up and brushing off the hay and heading off back to the fortress.

* * *

Sorry, once again, for such a short chapter.

Just a bit of an interesting fact I noticed while playing the game, in Solomon's Temple at the very beginning, Kadar and Malik shine blue when using Eagle Vision. Then when you're seeing Malik in the Bureau in Jerusalem, he shines white until Altaïr apologizes, when he starts to shine blue again. Just something I noticed. :)


	15. Chapter 15: The Fever

**Age 21:**

His fingers clawed the sheets of his bed, his head swiveled back and forth, his eyes shut tight, sweat dampening his forehead. His breathing is rough and unsteady, coming out in short, jagged gasps. Malik sat on a chair next to his little brother, tending to his fever by wiping the sweat from his brow and slowly pouring water down his throat when he cried out for it.

Malik hadn't slept in three days. He was keeping a constant vigil over his brother, making sure that Kadar's life did not slip away over night. He sat next to him in that wooden chair, his body growing stiff from the waist down, but he did not care. He needed to stay put, to take care of his younger brother.

All of the medics were busy or absent, for somewhat of a large mission had gone wrong. Malik didn't really know the details of the mission, nor did he particularly care, but it had resulted with many assassins injured, and Al Mualim sending a couple of medics each to the Bureaus to teach the Rafiqs basic medical skills. As a result, Malik was left to deal with Kadar's illness on his own. Malik estimated that, in total, there were probably about fifteen medics in total, as most of the children born in Masyaf are trained to be assassins or Informants, which was problematic when the fortress was attacked. Malik decided that if he ever became Grand Master, he would have more children trained for medical purposes. He wondered if he should speak to Al Mualim about this, but he decided to tuck that thought away for later.

Looking at Kadar's face again, Malik reached down to dampen the cloth in the bucket next to the chair, and dabbing at his forehead gently. Kadar's mouth opened and a strange, guttural moan escaped his lips. Malik's heart clenched in worry.

"M-M-Mal-" Kadar muttered.

Malik grasped Kadar's hand between his own. "I'm here, brother. I'm here." he said in a hushed voice.

"Dying..." he whispered.

"No, you're not. You're going to be fine." Malik told him, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

"Blood... Everywhere." Kadar moaned, "Stabbed... Darkness... Alone..."

"It's just a nightmare." insisted Malik, worried.

"Abandoned..." Kadar continued.

"It's just a dream." Malik said desperately, "You're fine. You're going to be fine. It's okay, Kadar."

Kadar moaned something unintelligible. Malik grabbed the cup of water and helped Kadar sit up with one hand and slowly tilting the cup into his younger brother's open mouth. The cool liquid slowly poured into the Novice and down his esophagus. Malik gently laid Kadar back down onto his bed. The youngest Al-Sayf brother rolled over onto his side, still clearly ill, but his sleep much less labored. Malik sighed and sat back onto his chair.

The next thing Malik knew, sunlight was shining down on his closed eyelids. They immediately snapped open, his mind flying into a panic. _How long was I asleep? What happened? Is Kadar okay?_

Malik studied Kadar, sighing in relief when he saw the nearly steady rise and fall of his younger brother's chest, and felt the frantic pulse beneath the skin of Kadar's wrist.

Outside of their shared bedroom, someone pounded on the door, making Malik jump. He stood and walked over, still exhausted despite his short nap. After opening the door, the assassin looked blearily into the face of Rauf.

"Master Al Mualim sent me to fetch you for your next mission." he said, looking startled at Malik's ragged appearance.

"Tell him I can't do it." Malik said flatly, about to close the door again.

"But-" Rauf started.

"I can't do it." Malik repeated, "I have something more important to do."

"But the Master requested you specifically." said Rauf.

"Well, tell him that I can't. Tell him that he should give the mission to Altaïr. Allah knows that the Master can't wait to give his favorite a chance to show how much better he is than everyone else-"

"Altaïr is on a mission to Acre right now." Rauf interrupted.

"I don't care who he sends!" Malik hissed, "He can send Abbas, or you, or anyone else! I have something more important to do, and that's final!"

Malik slammed the door and shuffled back to the chair, sitting down heavily. He sighed loudly and buried his face into his hands, bringing them upwards and running his fingers through his hair. Kadar looked up at him blearily, cerulean eyes dull with illness, without his elder brother noticing.

Eventually, little to Malik's surprise, Rauf returned, with Al Mualim. The Master pushed his way into the Al-Sayfs' room. The old man of the mountain's gray eyes swept the room, lingering on Kadar, who was in bed, and Malik, who looked up at the Master blearily from his chair. Al Mualim watched them, stroking his white beard. For a while, no one said anything.

"I see." was all he said.

"Safety and peace, Master." Malik said dully, "I'm sorry for not coming when you summoned me."

Al Mualim remained silent. Malik stared at him, the dark smudges of purple clearly visible under his eyes, waiting. Rauf fidgeted nervously in the doorway, clearly looking awkward. Kadar coughed from the bed, his hands clawing his sheets again, muttering quietly in his sleep.

"I cannot do the mission." Malik continued, "I am needed here. I must care for Kadar, and all the medics are busy."

Al Mualim still said nothing. Malik broke the eye contact, looking down at his feet, and then his younger brother's sweat-soaked face.

"Punish me however you like," said Malik, still not looking at Al Mualim. "But just let me stay here until Kadar is well. I can't stand the thought of his death. I don't know _what_ I would do." he added, his voice quieting, hoping to hide the fact that his voice broke.

"You may stay an care for your brother." said Al Mualim.

Malik's head jerked up in surprise, his eyes widening in surprise at the Master, "What?" he gaped.

"You will have to make this up later, but you may stay and tend to Kadar until he is well again." said Al Mualim decidedly.

Malik scrambled to his feet and bowed low towards the Master, thanking every god he could think of for the old man's pity. He babbled his gratitude to Al Mualim, who watched the young assassin what could almost have been amusement, if Malik didn't know any better.

"Come see me once your brother is well, and we can discuss how you will make up this time."

With that, Al Mualim swept from the room, his black robes billowing behind him. Rauf scurried out of the doorway as Al Mualim passed, the old man shutting the door behind him. Malik's eyes lingered on where the Master had been moments before, before turning back towards his brother and tending to him once more.

Kadar's blue eyes opened and he looked up at his brother tiredly. He noticed that his eyes were watering a little bit and Malik gave him a weak smile. Kadar grinned at his elder brother feebly before rolling over onto his side and falling asleep again. Malik sighed and reached out to ruffle his little brother's already messy black hair before sitting back in his chair with an exhausted sigh.


	16. Chapter 16: Grown Apart

**Age 22:**

The clouds above were dark and stormy. The streets were empty in preparation of the obvious rain to come, the air already feeling thick with humidity. A lone figure strode towards the village from the enormous fortress at the top of the hill.

Altaïr glanced up at the storm brewing above, inhaling the moist air deeply though his nose. He paused and he couldn't help noting how different it was from that day, so many years ago.

He knew the village below Masyaf like the back of his own hand, and did not hesitate on his way to get to where he was going. He knew the location of this place especially well, as he had been visiting it annually for the past several years.

Altaïr strode into the pub. He cast a sweeping glance over the people of the village of Masyaf before finding a table in the corner of the room, turning a chair around so that he was in the corner, facing outward towards the entire bar, mostly out of habit. He highly doubted that he would be attacked here, of all places, but better safe than sorry.

The barkeep who saw him enter waded through the crowded tables towards the assassin, who ordered a random drink. Altaïr didn't usually drink, but today he figured he may as well. It wasn't long before the barkeep returned with his drink, who sipped from it thoughtfully as he continued to survey his surroundings.

He was exactly twice his age since his father's execution. Not that it was really a happy day of remembrance, but in Altaïr's mind it was something to be acknowledged. Thus, on the anniversary of Umar lbn-La'Ahad's death, his only son would drink to his honor, if possible. He felt like it was the best way, other than being the very best assassin he could be, and making his father's sacrifice worth it.

Since Altaïr had become a full member of the order, he had been rising in rank steadily, Malik following close behind him. Altaïr figured that if he continued his progression at that rate, it would only be a matter of time before he achieved the rank of Master Assassin. Only a couple more years at the most, which would mean that he would be the youngest in the history of the Brotherhood ever to achieve the title.

Altaïr gulped down a couple more mouthfuls of the burning liquid, and deciding that he didn't like it as it slid down his esophagus. Altaïr scowled down at his tankard, swirling it around a little, before downing it in one gulp so that he wouldn't have to taste it.

Altaïr wiped his arm sloppily across his mouth before crossing his arms behind his head and propping his boots up on the table as he continued to survey the bar from his position. As he watched, a small group of maybe about six Novices headed inside and sat at a table across the room from him, appearing not to take notice of him. Altaïr's Eagle Vision activated briefly, and he spotted a flicker of blue in the crowd of the other white Novices. _Kadar._

Altaïr watched the Novices, amused, as they huddled together in a group and muttered in hushed voices to one another before one of them kicked Kadar's shin in a playful sort of way. Kadar stood up and walked awkwardly over to a barmaid, his face flushing a bright scarlet as he started to talk to her, gesturing with his hands animatedly as he did so. The barmaid watched him, amused, her cheeks turning a pale pink. Altaïr could see the other Novices snickering at the youngest Al-Sayf. The barmaid gave Kadar a small, pitying smile before slightly shaking her head and walking away, leaving Kadar alone. Kadar's face flushed an even brighter red, and his eyes swept across the tavern, his blue eyes passing over the other Novices before coming to a halt on Altaïr, seeming to realize his idol was there for the first time. Kadar buried his face in his hands, looking like he wanted to die.

Altaïr didn't acknowledge Kadar as he swung his legs off of the table and rummaged around in his coin pouch for some money and placing it on the table as he stood, hoping that it would be enough for his drink. He made his way to the entrance, still ignoring Kadar, partially to save him the embarrassment and partially, must it be said, because he didn't particularly want to deal with him or any other Novices at the moment.

Altaïr opened the taven door and left, heading back towards the fortress, wondering if Al Mualim had any missions for him to do, as large drops of rain plunked on the top of his hood. As he walked, he casually activated his Eagle Vision. Near the main gate of the fortress, Altaïr approached the shining blue figure that was shifting around frantically. Altaïr noted that the blue wasn't as bright as it once was, but he pushed that thought aside as he stopped and stood next to him.

"He's at the pub." Altaïr said flatly, allowing his vision to go back to normal.

"What?" Malik asked, turning towards him.

"You really shouldn't worry." Altaïr added, "Kadar's almost nineteen now. You really don't need to baby him."

"You stay out of my business, and I'll stay out of yours, _lbn-La'Ahad_." Malik said spitefully, crossing his arms across his chest and giving him a scowl that would have made a lesser man cringe.

Altaïr said nothing and held the eye contact for another moment until Malik turned away and headed towards the direction from which Altaïr came, muttering something under his breath about the morons he was to work and that he couldn't believe they used to be friends with that Altaïr didn't quite catch due to the soft _shhhhhhhhh_ of rain.

Altaïr shook his head out of their conversation and began his trek back to the main fortress once more, his mind focused back on any possible missions that the Master may have for him.

* * *

Sorry for another short chapter. They'll get longer, I promise!

Speaking of which, we only have three left! Gaah! Can you believe it!? I didn't think I'd get this far! XD

The only ones left are ages twenty-five, twenty-six, and twenty-seven! (Mostly because I couldn't think of any good stories for twenty-three and twenty-four. :P )


	17. Chapter 17: Master Assassin

**Age 25:**

Life as a Master Assassin was good. He went on the most dangerous missions, he didn't have to deal with the Informers, who would do all of the work for him and report back to the Bureau there, and the Novices of Masyaf were all looking up to him. A day did not go by when he wasn't on mission that the younger generation of would-be assassins did not pester him to tell them all about his latest mission, or gawk openly as he practiced fighting with Rauf in the training ring. He got paid the most, and he also got a lot of time to complete his missions too, unlike the other, "normal assassins," who almost always had a time limit. He also got to speak to Al Mualim when ever he liked in the Master's private office, provided he wasn't busy. The Master would talk to him and a couple of the other Master Assassins to help him make decisions, lacking a second-in-command man.

Still, to Altaïr, something didn't seem right. Whenever he looked at Malik he felt the unfamiliar feeling of guilt stir and pinch at his stomach and would quickly look away before the other man would notice, or at least he would attempt to. On occasion they caught each other's gaze, but Altaïr would always look away quickly to avoid embarrassment.

These were the thoughts that were swirling around in Altaïr's mind one evening in Masyaf, in the dining hall. The words of their promise to one another as children echoed in his mind.

"_And we'll become Master Assassins together, right?_" Malik's seven year old voice would ask, sounding uncertain, maybe even pleading.

His voice would always respond in an almost patronizing way, his tone reprimanding his friend for asking about something that should have been obvious all along. "_Of course! We always do everything together, and we always will! I don't see why that should change when we're adults._"

How naïve they had been! The world around them was changing and shifting as they grew and changed themselves. The two, without either of them really realizing it, had branched apart in their most recent years, as childhood friends often did, and Altaïr doubted that they or their friendship would ever be the same again. They had grown up. They had become killers. They were no longer the innocent little children who had begged their fathers to save the life of an already dead bird, an event that neither could really remember, but just a story that Faheem Al-Sayf had told them a few weeks before his death, so many years ago.

Altaïr watched his former friend across the dining hall, his eyes glazed as he remembered the better times until he blinked several times and realized that Malik had caught Altaïr watching him as well. The latter was surprised to see a look of utter contempt and jealousy in the other assassin's eyes. Altaïr had looked away, golden eyes flickering downwards guiltily, and he stabbed moodily at his dinner of roast lamb, pita bread, and hummus.

_Does Malik really despise me that much?_ Altaïr wondered, staring determinedly at his plate, not wanting to look up again.

What Altaïr really wanted was to rekindle their friendship and have everything go back to the way it was previously, when they were Novices, or maybe even before, but, once again, that was impossible. There was just too much that was different, and clearly what _was_ different no one could do anything about. It was just... life. Altaïr wanted to talk to Malik again, to see if they could figure out _why_ they had grown apart, but Altaïr was too busy now, and even if he wasn't, he couldn't figure out _how_ to speak to him anymore.

Altaïr wondered what he did to Malik to deserve such anger. Sure he broke their mutual promise of becoming Master Assassins together, but in Altaïr's mind it wasn't that bad. Besides, they were children when they had made that promise to one another, and Malik shouldn't hold him to something stupid he said when he was little. It was likely that Malik didn't even _remember_ their agreement. Not only that, but Malik would probably be a Master Assassin soon, anyways, as he was just one rank behind him. Altaïr couldn't recall getting into a fight with the man, nor could he recall wronging Kadar in any way, which would have made Malik just as mad if it had been to him. Altaïr was left to conclude what he had previously figured, that they had simply grown apart.

Altaïr could still feel eyes on him and looked up once more to see that Malik's charcoal eyes were still watching him, giving him a glare that could have burned a hole in the Master Assassin's head. Altaïr, before he could stop himself, sneered at the other assassin as if to say, "What do you want?"

Malik scowled at him and turned away, saying something to Kadar. Altaïr turned away too, back towards his own plate of food, which now seemed bitter and tasteless.

* * *

The next two will be longer, I promise! :D


	18. Chapter 18: Will to Live

**Age 26:**

The pain was excruciating; it was nothing like Malik had ever experienced before. No stab, slash, or broken bone even came close to the pain he felt then. It was even worse than the death of his parents, because at least he had had _someone _then, which was better than no one at all. Even the amputation of his left arm, and the wound that had caused it to be so, seemed dull in comparison to the loss of Kadar.

Nothing could alleviate the pain of the loss of his little brother. Not drugs, not alcohol, not unconsciousness. Every time Malik managed to fall asleep, he was haunted with nightmares of being forced to relive Kadar's last moments, or having Kadar stand before him, battered and bloody, begging to know why his older brother didn't save him. Even when he was awake, Kadar's lack of a presence was glaring, for every time he had been injured at Masyaf, Kadar had always been there for him, even if it was as small as a scraped knee.

He did not sleep well either. At most, Malik slept for fifteen minutes at a time, constantly jolting awake either due to his nightmares, his face damp with sweat and tears, or he would find himself unable to rest due to the terribly excruciating phantom pain of where his left arm used to be. The medics had told him that where his arm used to be would hurt a lot while the amputation was fresh in his mind and his body was still getting used to it being missing, but it wouldn't hurt _so_ much as time went by, although he would feel the phantom pain through out the rest of his life.

The physical pain wasn't even what hurt the most. It was the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same. It was the knowledge that he had survived, where his younger brother hadn't. It was the knowledge that he couldn't protect Kadar like he had promised his mother. It was the knowledge that his body had suffered irreparable damage, and he would be crippled for the rest of his life. It was the knowledge that he would never become a Master Assassin, and he was utterly useless now. It was the knowledge that that _one single mission _had ruined his entire life.

The medics of Masyaf seemed to hover around him constantly, always bustling about trying to feed him, or give him medicine, or bandage what used to be his arm, and Malik hated them. He wanted to die, and they wouldn't let him. He wanted to die, now that the Apple of Eden was in safe hands, and tell Kadar how so terribly sorry he was and beg for his forgiveness. Not only did they insist on keeping him alive, but every time they came to rebandage his stump, which remained a constant and ever-present reminder of how badly Malik had failed, they would always have the same look of pity in their eyes, that Malik knew he would have to deal with for the rest of his life, that he despised already. He didn't need their pity, nor did he want it. It only made him angry, and it only made him feel worse.

Malik spent his time waiting for his fever to fade, staring blankly at the ceiling of the infirmary as his fingers clawed at his sheets in response to the phantom pain, wallowing in his own misery, grief, and hatred. Hatred of both himself and Altaïr. Altaïr may have been the catalyst, but Malik didn't stop him or prevent the outcome. Now both he and Kadar have suffered for the Master Assassin's stupidity and utter lack of regard for either of the Al-Sayf brothers.

One afternoon, after his fever had mostly subsided, Malik awoke with a particularly horrible fit of phantom pain, he gasped slightly and reached over with his right hand and grabbed his stump, just above the end. His hand clenched tightly, gritting his teeth, as painful spasms racked through muscles that weren't there.

Eventually it faded away into a dull throb, and Malik realized that he wasn't alone. He turned to his right, a heavy sense of foreboding settling over him, to see Master Al Mualim sitting on the bed next to him, watching him and stroking his beard. Malik sighed through his nose and looked back at the ceiling, figuring that the Master would speak to him when he was ready. He had been expecting this since he awoke to find his arm gone, and although he knew it was inevitable, he did not wish to speed up the process.

The Master eventually said, "Safety and peace Malik Al-Sayf. I would like to congratulate you once more on your victory beneath Jerusalem."

Malik's brown eyes squeezed shut in a grimace. "_Victory? What victory? Sure the treasure the Master calls 'the Apple' is out of reach of the Templars, but is that damn piece of metal worth it?_" he thought savagely. He didn't think so.

"Such bravery and sacrifice must be rewarded." Al Mualim continued, "If it weren't for your, ah, handicap, I would have promoted you to Master Assassin. You were only one rank away, yes?"

Malik, keeping his eyes shut tightly, nodded. He couldn't help noticing the Master's choice of words. "_Were._"

"However, you understand that this is impossible now, of course." Al Mualim added.

Malik opened his eyes, dull with pain and exhaustion, and turned his head back towards the old man of the mountain. For the first time in ages, Malik spoke, and when he did, it came out as more of a croak. "Yes." he said, the feeling of foreboding flaring to life once more.

"Therefore," the Master said. "I am promoting you to Rafiq. This is a great honor, and you should feel proud."

This wasn't what he was expecting, not that he really knew _what_ he was expecting, but it didn't matter as Al Mualim's words slowly sunk in. This was his prize for managing to drag himself back to Masyaf with the Apple, half dead. He got to be a scholar, a man raised and trained to be a weapon against the Assassins' enemies, resigned to a life of paperwork. A keeper of a small building to be used as a halfway house for the _real_ assassins on _real_ missions. It was an insult to him, Kadar, and his family name.

However, Malik found his eyes drawn to the stump of his arm once more. He knew that he could never do what he had dreamed of since he was a child, he could never be a Master Assassin. He was a liability, he was an embarrassment to the Brotherhood. What was he now? A useless _cripple_ resigned to a life of ink, parchment, and paperwork to serve the whole, functional assassins doing _actual_ work, the work that Malik was meant to do, but could never do again.

"You are being assigned to Jerusalem, as Rafiq Nibras has requested a retirement." Al Mualim went on, "You are to report to the Bureau there in two weeks. Surely you will be healed enough to travel by then."

"_Jerusalem!_" Malik protested silently, "_Please, Master, have mercy! Do not send me anywhere_ near_ that place again! Assign me anywhere else! I beg of you!_" The last place Malik wanted to go was there. It was too soon to be so close to the place that had ruined his life and where Kadar had lost his.

However, Malik had been taught to hold his tongue, especially before the Master, and fell silent. He turned his head back towards the ceiling once more, his brow wrinkling, his eyes squeezing shut tighter and tighter. Al Mualim did not speak, and simply watched the crippled ex-assassin on the bed before him.

"I understand. Thank you, Master." Malik croaked once he found his voice again, his lips barely moving as he spoke.

Al Mualim stood. "Congratulations, Malik, and I wish you a speedy recovery."

"Wait!" Malik exploded, his eyes snapping open, and weakly attempting to push himself into a seated position with little success as the Master turned back and looked at him, "I would like to give... give Kadar a proper burial. A proper funeral. Can you send someone to retrieve his body? I can pay for all expenses. I- I apologize for being so bold, Master, but it means a lot to me." Malik couldn't bare the thought of his little brother's corpse sitting beneath that accursed city, forever, left rotting and eaten by parasites...

Al Mualim's face was stern for a moment before slipping into pity, but for once Malik didn't care as the Master spoke the words he was hoping for. "Of course." he said kindly, before turning and exiting the room.

Malik sighed, somewhat in relief, and flopped back down onto his bed. He rolled over onto his right side, his remaining arm tucked neatly under him, prickles of phantom pain once again hurting him. Malik grimaced, tears rolling unabashedly down his face once more, as he mourned all that had been lost.


	19. Chapter 19: Everything Changed

**Age 27:**

Malik's footsteps echoed against the stone hallway around him as he strode without paying attention to where he was going. He watched his feet as he walked, his black Dai robes billowing behind him, oblivious to where he was going and his surroundings, lost in thought.

He couldn't believe it had been a year, although Malik was confident that it was today. When he awoke he could feel it in his bones. It had been exactly one year since he, Altaïr, and Kadar had gone to Solomon's Temple. Malik found himself wondering if Altaïr even knew, or cared.

So much has changed since now and then. Al Mualim was dead. Altaïr was now Grand Master of the order in his place. Malik was his second in command. He had also been sent to Jerusalem to become Rafiq there. Altaïr had had his title as Master Assassin taken away, and he earned it back. Also, while Malik couldn't say he was exactly used to having one arm, it didn't seem as much of a hindrance as it was when it was first amputated.

Not surprisingly, there were a few assassins who were similar to some of the citizens of Jerusalem, such as Abbas, in believing that he shouldn't be comfortable or happy because of his disability. As a result, Altaïr's decision to make Malik his right hand man was not taken so well by a handful of people, and the latter was shoved around a lot as a result, but Malik didn't care anymore; he was used to it at that point. At that point he had dealt with a year of physical and verbal abuse from other people, and it didn't really effect him anymore, or at least he had tried to not let it.

Malik finally looked up and realized that he was a few doors down from the old room he used to share with Kadar, a place he hadn't been since the day the three of them left for Jerusalem. When he had returned, Malik had mostly stayed in the infirmary and avoided the room and anywhere near it, not wanting any more reminders of Kadar's death. After the death of Al Mualim, and Altaïr had placed Malik as second in command and moved to the Grand Master's quarters himself, Malik had decided to move to the old quarters of the last assassin who was second in command, who had died years ago and had never been replaced for one reason or another.

Acting on impulse, Malik halted in front of his old bedroom and pushed the door open after a moment of hesitation, wondering what he was going to find inside and how it would be different. He also found himself wondering if it had been given to another assassin or two in his absence, and if he would be intruding on their personal space.

However, it was exactly how he remembered it. His old bed was pressed up against the wall, his sheets neatly folded, with Kadar's bed across from it, rumples in the partially-made bed. They each had a small night-stand next to their beds and at the foot of Kadar's bed was their shared wardrobe with a desk and a chair at the end of Malik's. Upon closer inspection of the desk, there was an old eagle-feather quill on it and a long-since dried ink well. The surface was covered in various bits of old paper, a combination of maps, sketches, and half-filled out assassination reports.

Malik's eyes clouded over with nostalgia, and he subconsciously reached over and grabbed the stump of his left arm. His eyes drifted across the room until they finally came to rest on Kadar's old nightstand. He walked over and picked up the old, small, wooden figurine of a dog, its paint long-since faded. As he held it in his hand, fingering it thoughtfully, he smiled slightly to himself before slipping it into his pocket and exiting the room.

He decided he needed to talk to Altaïr about something. He didn't know exactly what about, but he knew it was something. Malik checked his office, but finding it void of anyone alive, so he stopped a passing Novice who couldn't have been any more than twelve.

"Where is Altaïr?" asked Malik.

"The Grand Master was going down to the training ring to talk to Rauf during our class, so we were dismissed early." said the Novice uncertainly, shuffling his feet, "He mentioned going up to the tower where people practice their Leaps of Faith to practice himself."

Malik nodded and figured that his best option would to be to head up to the tower. A handful assassins greeted him as he passed, and Malik simply nodded in response to them. He climbed the latter to the tower, leaning forward heavily, as not to loose his balance. Once again, Altaïr was not there. Malik sighed, rolling his eyes, and sitting down on one of the ledges, the one where Altaïr had preformed a Leap if Faith in front of an army of Templars last year, and where he had first explained his Eagle Vision to Malik seven years ago.

He looked out across Masyaf, towards the mountains beyond. Malik was once again struck by how different everything was, and he had a feeling that the changes weren't going to stop yet, not for a long time. He also suspected that the treasure he had brought back from Solomon's Temple, the "Apple of Eden," or whatever it was, would still be the cause of _some _trouble over the years, despite Malik's efforts to encourage Altaïr to destroy it or get rid of it. However, his friend would always insist that there was something to learn from the despicable piece of metal. Malik wasn't so sure, but clearly there was nothing he could say to convince Altaïr otherwise.

Growing impatient, and tired of waiting for Altaïr to show up, Malik stood at the edge of the ledge, the tips of his boots hanging off the end. At the very bottom, directly below him, he could see the pile of hay to cushion the fall of anyone who wished to jump, whether for practice, training, or fun.

Once again, Malik realized, with a jolt, how long it had been since he had preformed a Leap of Faith. Automatically, standing on the edge, his body tensed for the jump, for it had not forgotten what to do. His knees bent and he pressed his forearm against his side, his muscles tensing. The words of his old mentor echoed in his mind, "_Don't think; just jump._"

So he did. Malik flung himself into midair, his arm unfolding like a wing as he hung in the air for a moment, seemingly suspended for a few seconds, before he gracefully fell through the air, twisting his body to land on his back before he hit the hay below. Or, rather, that is what would have happened if Malik hadn't been so unbalanced. In midair Malik's body started tilting to his right side without a left arm to balance him.

Panic flared in his mind as his body twisted in a way that was all wrong. He tried to move his body in a way to avoid injury, seconds before he landed. Malik slammed into the hay awkwardly, landing hard on his right side.

"Shit!" he swore loudly.

Malik hissed and clenched his fist, rolling into his back. Luckily the hay was soft enough and he had managed to land in a way that he wasn't terribly hurt, but he got the wind knocked out of him. He laid there for a moment, grimacing, his right side throbbing as he thanked every deity he could think of off the top of his head that his arm wasn't broken.

From somewhere near his head, he heard someone else land in one of the other haystacks with much better grace than Malik. He scowled, and remained still. He couldn't help thinking bitterly, having come to expect that sort of behavior, "_Come to laugh at the cripple? Show him how to_ properly _do a Leap of Faith?_"

The face of Altaïr peered down at him skeptically. Malik glared at him and hauled himself into a seated position. Altaïr took a step back and appraised him, that same skeptical look on his face. Altaïr raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Are you okay?" he asked gruffly, much to Malik's surprise.

"Fine." Malik asked, still surprised without really knowing why.

Malik scrambled to his feet, and glared at Altaïr disapprovingly. "You're still not wearing your Grand Master robes."

That was another thing that Malik had been insisting that Altaïr do. However, the latter would always insist that he would rather wear his Master Assassin robes, despite Malik always telling him that the other members of their order would probably be more willing to preform and less skeptical about orders if he actually looked like he held the position of Grand Master.

In response, Altaïr merely shrugged off the question. "A Novice said you were looking for me. Any particular reason?"

"I wanted to make sure you haven't killed yourself in some stupid way, which will undoubtedly happen at some point." Malik snapped, although his tone was more playful than scathing.

"I appreciate your concern." Altaïr remarked dryly.

There was another awkward pause between the two. Malik looked out across the mountains once more as Altaïr watched the churning water of the river below.

"It's the anniversary, isn't it?" said Altaïr suddenly, tearing his gaze away from the river and looking at Malik again.

"It is." agreed Malik, glancing at his feet, "I didn't know you remembered."

"How could I forget?" Altaïr said bitterly, glaring at his boots before looking up again and adding, "So much has changed."

"I was just thinking the same thing." Malik admitted.

"Everything's so different now." Altaïr continued.

Malik shot him a sideways glance, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "What is wrong, Altaïr? It's not like you to be so..." he paused, searching for the right word. "Philosophical." he decided.

At this, Altaïr shrugged again. "Maybe I've changed too."

Malik pursed his lips and studied him. "Yes," he agreed. "you have."

"I doubt things will stop changing soon." the Master went on.

"Everything's always changing, Altaïr." Malik reminded him, his mouth twisting upwards in a smirk.

The Master turned towards his second in command, an uncharacteristic grin on his face, startling Malik into returning the grin.

Malik smiled and punched Altaïr in the arm. "Come on, _Novice,_ let's go. We have work to do."

* * *

I would once again like to thank all of my readers for tolerating my writing this long. I mostly started writing it for my own amusement, not really intending to publish it, like most of my fan fictions. When I started publishing it, I figured that no one would read it, let alone actually enjoy it (judging from some of your comments. I figured most of you enjoyed it, unless you're all too polite to say otherwise.) Thank you all for reading my writing, and I hope you enjoyed reading _Assassins Through the Ages_ as much as I enjoyed writing it!

I have a couple of ideas for another Assassin's Creed story, few one-shots, maybe a couple of other series, so let me know if your interested! :)

Safety and peace, everyone!


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